


Blood of the Dragon

by elfinisms



Series: War of the Dragons [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adult Content, Angst, Blood and Violence, Dragons, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Smut, Swearing, Tahir is a hoe, Tahir is not a Dragonborn I just used the tag to gain more traction, Ulfric lovers beware he does become a main villain, Violence, the slowest burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:54:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28787523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfinisms/pseuds/elfinisms
Summary: From the moment she set foot into Skyrim, everything has gone sideways for Firien Sunhallow, who was just trying to begin anew after a troubled past in Valenwood. Wrongfully captured by Imperials, somehow survived the first dragon attack in years, then forced to join a guild by a carefree Redguard named Tahir with an air of vanity and an affinity for doing whatever he wants.Then, just when things start to get some degree of comfortable for Firien, she discovers she’s the first Dragonborn in ages, and the last there will ever be.When the World-Eater comes, she quickly learns she will be the first and last defense Tamriel has against its inevitable demise.
Relationships: Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Farkas, Farkas (Elder Scrolls)/Original Character(s), Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Farkas, Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Vilkas, Vilkas (Elder Scrolls)/Original Character(s)
Series: War of the Dragons [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2195250
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	1. Awake- Jeremy Soule

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This is my first work I’ve ever posted on AO3, and it’s taking me a lot of courage to finally share it with the world. It started out as a joke between my best friend and I, and turned into this whole series that I’ve been working on for four years. It will be a two part series, with other one shots and maybe some mini series slapped in there too. 
> 
> Sadly, despite working on it for so long, I finished the first part, then scrapped it and started anew. From a writer’s perspective, it was worth it, because while frustrating, it’s definitely better than the first time around. I am still actively writing it, so updates may be very distanced.
> 
> That said, I hope you all enjoy! 
> 
> Beta’d by Evenings_Dawn, another good friend of mine who gave me the extra boost of courage I needed to share it.
> 
> Footnote to add that I refuse to believe Skyrim is very small. It’s huge. The cities are huge. Tamriel is huge. Everything is huge. Fight me.
> 
> I also want to add that if you’re fond of Ulfric Stormcloak, turn back now. He is a major villain in this series. If you’re a fan of characters staying completely within character/true to the source material, this probably isn’t the story for you. All characters will eventually become “OOC” as a result of war, trauma, and romantic/sexual awakening. They will still keep their core characteristics, but certain aspects will change with their storyline since life does that to people.

The sound of soldiers talking and laughing, combined with the loud rumble of the carriage that was being pulled along by what sounded like two large horses was enough to suddenly force her from her sleep. She opened her eyes blearily and looked around, and immediately panicked. Her armor and weapons were gone, and her hands, which rested in her lap, were bound tightly. She was in a carriage with four other prisoners. There were three Nords, a blonde one who looked far too pleased, given the situation, and the other was haunched over, and unlike the rest of them, he had been gagged with a thick piece of cloth. The two of them were obviously Stormcloaks soldiers, their garb being a dead giveaway. The last Nord wore regular clothing, and he fidgeted with his roughspun tunic, his eyes wide and glossy with anxiety. The last prisoner was a Redguard man with long, dark brown hair that was far too clean-looking and the greenest eyes she had ever seen. He looked completely at ease, despite his bound hands, and even wore a lazy grin as he looked around the carriage. To her surprise, one of them, the blonde, turned to her suddenly.

“Hey you,” he said, “you’re finally awake. You were trying to cross the border right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush same as us and that thief over there.”

Firien merely stared at the man, not saying anything.

“Damn you Stormcloaks,” the alleged thief spat, his eyes on the blonde Nord. “Skyrim was fine until you came along! Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn’t been looking for you, I’d have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell.” He turned to Firien. “You there, you and me and this guy—“ The Redguard. “—we shouldn’t be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants. Not us.”

“I dunno,” said the Redguard, his eyes on Firien, who looked back at him blankly. “I think she’s the only one who didn’t actually do anything wrong.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said the blonde. “We’re all brothers and sisters in bonds now.”

“Shut up back there!” the carriage driver shouted suddenly.

They all fell silent, and Firien tried to remember what had happened. The only thing she recalled was finally reaching Skyrim, her destination, and immediately stumbling into an ambush near the southern border. She remembered struggling against her captors, a sharp blow to the head, then nothing. 

The back of her head throbbed suddenly, as if the memory had triggered her pain receptors back into gear. With a jolt, she frantically looked around, ignoring the pain it caused.

Where was her axe? Her dagger? Where was the cloak that had belonged to her father, which she had stolen from her mother before leaving Valenwood? Where was her tunic and her boots? Her coin purse and waterskin? Had they taken everything from her?

Bitter anger coursed through her. Why was she even here? She had done nothing wrong. And to top it all off, these bastards had also stolen everything she owned.

The horse thief jerked his head toward the gagged Stormcloaks. “What’s wrong with him, huh?”

“Watch your tongue!” said the blonde fiercely. “You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King.”

Firien looked at Ulfric in interest. He didn’t look like a High King. He looked like an average man, from what she could tell. The only thing that stood out about him was the massive cloak made from black fur that donned his shoulders. Why hadn’t they taken his clothing? 

A spark of fear flashed in her mind as she wondered what had happened to her while she was unconscious.

“Ulfric?” echoed the horse thief. “The Jarl of Windhelm? You’re the leader of the rebellion... if they’ve captured you... oh gods, where are they taking us?”

His voice had risen in his panic and Firien rolled her eyes. The Redguard was watching the scene with an expression of mild interest.

“I don’t know where we’re going,” said the blonde heavily, “but Sovngarde awaits.”

“No, This can’t be happening! This isn’t happening!”

The blonde Nord chuckled slightly before speaking again. “Hey, what village are you from, horse-thief?

“Why do you care?”

“A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.”

Firien stared at the wooden boards between her feet. She was not a Nord, and Valenwood was a long way from here.

“Rorikstead,” replied the thief after a moment of hesitation. “I’m from Rorikstead.”

A man who rode a few horses ahead of them suddenly spoke up, and Firien saw a village was coming into view, with sentries stationed on a gated wall made of wood. “General Tullius sir! The headsman is waiting.”

“Good, Hadvar,” said the man Firien could only assume was General Tullius, “let's get this over with.”

The horse thief suddenly whimpered and began praying, “Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh! Divines, please help me!”

The blonde Nord’s eyes were on General Tullius. “Look at him! General Tullius, the Military. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves, I bet they had something to do with this.” He paused to observe his surroundings, and Firien shot him an angry glare. “This is Helgen... I used to be sweet on a girl from here. I wonder if Velod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in... Funny, when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.”

The carriage slowly rumbled through the village, and Firien glared at all the villagers who gathered around the street to gawk at the prisoners. When the driver finally halted the horses in front of a large, lone-standing tower, Firien caught a glimpse of a small village square with a chopping block in the direct center of it. A line of Stormcloak soldiers stood nearby, hands bound and ready to meet their fate.

 _Fantastic_ , she thought grimly.

“Do you not talk, little elf?” asked the Redguard with a teasing grin. Firien only stared at him, too angry to actually speak. Had she really come so far, just to be executed simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time? “You are too beautiful to be among such lowly rabble, with that pretty blonde hair and those eerie blue eyes. Alas, I suppose that beauty is something we have in common. Perhaps we can be friends, you and I, if you make it out of this alive. None that any living man have seen the likes of before.”

He laughed, to Firien’s annoyance.

“Say, Redguard, what’s got you so cheerful?” asked the blonde Nord. “You’re about to meet the same fate.”

“I think not,” said the Redguard, examining his nails in his lap. “One night of imprisonment and a small fine, and I’m back on the road to wherever I may go.”

“How do you know that?” asked the horse thief in awe.

The Redguard grinned, but before he could answer, a female Imperial guard ordered all the prisoners out of the carriage. 

“Well, end of the line,” said the blonde Nord. “Let’s get this over with. We don’t want to keep the gods waiting on us, do we?”

He hopped out of the cart, followed by the horse thief, then the Redguard, then Firien, and with Ulfric Stormcloak bringing up the rear.

“Step toward the block when we call your name!” said the female Imperial, whom Firien has gathered was a captain of sorts. 

“Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak of Windhelm!” called Hadvar.

Ulfric Stormcloak stepped forward, and Firien was surprised to see how tall he really was and how proudly he carried himself. He brushed past her as if she were nothing more than a beggar on the streets. This didn’t surprise her; she had heard many tales of his hatred for Elvenkind during her travels.

“Ralof of Riverwood!” The blonde Nord stepped forward and moved to stand beside Ulfric. “Tahir, son of Kadir, of Hammerfell.”

The Redguard stepped forward, and Hadvar looked at the Imperial woman.

“Captain, it says here he’s to be imprisoned for a night then set free with a fine of one hundred Septims.”

The captain looked at Tahir shrewdly. “Seems your noble blood has saved your skin, Redguard. You’re lucky I know your father.”

Tahir bowed low, and Firien suspected it was insincere.

“But it was your decision to spare me, Captain, and I thank you.”

Firien rolled her eyes. Typical lickspittle behavior from a spoiled noble who was used to getting what he wanted, and with no consequences for his actions.

Two guards came and secured Tahir between them, and they led him away and to a small wooden building nearby, presumably the guards’ barracks. As they left, Firien heard the Redguard complaining about missing the show.

Hadvar looked back down at the list. “Lokir of Rorikstead!”

Lokir, the horse thief, backed away. “No! You can’t do this! I’m not a rebel!”

Before anyone could stop him, he took off running in the direction from which they came. 

“Halt!” shouted the Captain, and when Lokir did not stop, she barked, “Archers!”

Three men stepped forward, their bows ready. They fired toward Lokir, and while only one arrow met its mark, it struck true, and Lokir fell to the ground, dead.

“Anyone else?” demanded the captain. When no one replied, she looked at Hadvar expectantly, who looked back down at his list. He looked back up at Firien, his expression confused.

“Wait...” he said, looking at her. “You there. Step forward.” Firien did as she was told. “Who are you?”

“My name is Firien.”

“Not many Wood Elves would choose travel to Skyrim alone...” He looked at the captain. “Captain, she’s not on the list. What should we do?”

“Forget the list,” snapped the captain. “She goes straight to the block.”

“For what crime?” demanded Firien angrily, turning to the captain. “What did I do?”

The captain smiled at her coldly. “I’m sure we can come up with something.”

Firien opened her mouth to protest, but Hadvar cut her off. “By your orders, Captain.” He looked at Firien apologetically. “I’m sorry. I’ll make sure your remains are safely returned to Valenwood.”

Before Firien could argue, a noise she had never heard before tore through the air. It sounded as if it was made by something big.

“What was that?” asked Hadvar, looking around wildly.

“It was nothing,” said Tullius. “Carry on.”

He stepped up to Ulfric Stormcloak and gave him a triumphant smirk. “Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn’t use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp the throne.”

Ulfric growled, unable to speak.

“You started this war, flung Skyrim into chaos. And now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace.”

Ulfric raised his chin, never breaking eye contact with Tullius.

A priestess approached, and the Imperial captain turned to her. “Give them their last rights.”

The priestess cleared her throat. “As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you—“

A Stormcloak soldier groaned loudly, interrupting the priestess. “For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with.”

He marched up to the chopping block and dropped to his knees before it.

“As you wish,” said the priestess after a moment of hesitation. 

“Come on! I haven’t got all morning!” The Stormcloak bent over the chopping block, but his eyes were on the Imperial captain and he wore a wide, taunting grin. “My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperial. Can you say the same?”

With a snarl of anger, the captain stepped on his back, forcing him closer to the block. The executioner raised his axe and brought it down in one swift movement, easily beheading the Stormcloak. His head landed in the basket with a gentle thump. Another guard approached and kicked his body out of the way.

“As fearless in death as he was in life,” said Ralof sadly.

“Next!” called the captain. “The Wood Elf!”

The same sound rang out again, but this time it sounded closer.

“There it is again!” said Hadvar. “What is it?”

“I said, next prisoner,” said the captain through clenched teeth.

With her jaw set and her head held high, Firien approached the block and dropped to her knees before it. She bent over it, the coppery smell of fresh blood invading her nostrils. Her eyes fell on the sky by chance, and she squinted when she saw something huge and black coming toward them, and fast.

The executioner raised his axe, and Firien closed her eyes, bracing herself for death, her mind mysteriously blank.

The blow never came. Instead, people started screaming and she heard the axe fall to the ground beside her. She heard someone (most likely Hadvar), shout, “What in Oblivion is that?” 

Firien opened her eyes in time to see a huge, black dragon land on the line-standing toward. It opened its massive jaws and let out an ear-shattering noise that sounded like a crash of thunder. All at once, the sky darkened and large balls of fire began falling from the sky. 

She leapt to her feet and, for just a moment, the dragon looked directly at her.

Then it spoke.

“ _Dovahkiin!_ ” it roared, and there was another crash of thunder and to her utter bewilderment, massive, flaming boulders began to rain from the sky.

Firien stumbled backward just in time for a hand to grab her shoulder. She turned around, ready to strike whoever grabbed her, and was slightly relieved to see Ralof.

“Come on, come on!” he shouted over the sound of the fireballs destroying the village. “The guards won’t give us another chance! This way!”

She followed him to another tower, where Ulfric Stormcloak awaited them. There was a large set of stone stairs, and on the first landing, three Imperial guards cowered for their lives, so terrified that they didn’t even bother with stopping Firien, Ralof, or Ulfric. Ralof slammed the door behind them and grabbed a dagger that had been abandoned on a large table. He cut his own binds, then Firien’s, and finally, Ulfric’s.

“Jarl Ulfric,” panted Ralof, “what is that thing? Could the legends be true?”

Ulfric tore the gag from his mouth and spat on the ground. “Do legends burn down villages?”

The building suddenly trembled, and Firien nearly lost her balance. She righted herself, and headed toward a flight of stairs that wound upward and out of sight.

“Where are you going?” Ulfric demanded. Clearly he was someone who was used to people awaiting his command, but Firien had no concern for him.

“I don’t care about legends or wars or even this village,” snapped Firien. “I’m getting out of here.”

The second she set foot on the stairs, the wall of the first landing suddenly shattered, and the black dragon stuck its head through, successfully incinerating the Imperial guards who had been hiding there. Firien froze, horrified by what she just saw. The dragon jerked its head back through the hole, and she saw it take off into the air once more.

Seizing the opportunity, she sprinted up the steps and to the hole. Below, another hole in the ceiling of the guards’ barracks told her the second floor of the ruined building was empty and burning.

The black dragon was circling back around, and without any further hesitation, Firien leapt from the landing and down into the barracks, rolling when her feet made contact with the wooden floor. She didn’t bother in waiting for Ralof or Ulfric Stormcloak. She dropped through a hole in the floor, and began searching for weapons and armor. All she found was a leather cuirass, some boots, and a belt with a small iron war axe looped through it. 

How convenient.

“Good enough,” she muttered as she slipped the cuirass on over the roughspun tunic they had given her and shoved her feet into the boots, which were a tad bit too large. She tied the belt around her waist before immediately drawing the axe. A decently hefty coin purse sat on a collapsed shelf, and she grabbed it, shoving it deep into the pocket of her trousers. She poked her head out of the building, and upon seeing that the dragon was busy snapping at some poor villagers, she snuck out of the barracks. The village was in total ruin. Almost all the buildings had been set ablaze, and for some reason, there were still Imperial soldiers trying to fight off this dragon. As she watched, one of them was hit by a flaming boulder, and was nothing more than a splatter of gore as it rolled away.

The dragon took off into the sky with a shriek of fury, and it circled back around then swooped so low that Firien dove to the ground to avoid it. With claws extended, it wrenched an Imperial soldier from the ground and dragged the screaming man into the sky with it. When it was about six hundred feet from the ground, it dropped the man, and he fell through the air and landed somewhere beyond Helgen’s walls, his terrified scream cut short.

Not wanting to be next, Firien searched for a possible escape route. To her right, a fence had been knocked over, and beyond that, she saw trees. Cover. A chance of survival. 

She took a step, then paused. Did she dare? What if the dragon decided to turn on the forest? Her chance of survival would become her demise.

She bounced from one foot to the other, hesitating when it mattered most. Suddenly, the dragon landed behind her (thankfully facing the other way), causing the ground to upheave violently, and she lost her balance, sprawling in the dirt.

A hand presented itself to her and she looked up, surprised to see the Redguard standing there, looking at her impatiently. He now had a belted sheath around his waist, and he held dual scimitars in his free hand.

“What are you waiting for?” he asked, shaking his hand slightly. “Let’s go!”

Without hesitation, she grabbed his hand and he pulled her to her feet.

“We have to get to Whiterun,” said Tahir, looking her over as he dragged her to the trees, making her decision for her. He released her and divided his scimitars. “They have walls and more soldiers.”

Firien wasn’t quite sure where Whiterun was, but she did know it was the trading capital of Skyrim, and could only silently agree that it would be the safest place. And if this Redguard knew where he was going, she had no choice but to trust him. For now.

The moment they reached the dense woods, the dragon launched itself into the sky, circling around the village with a deafening roar. It flew toward the trees, causing them to bend with the force of its wings. Firien crouched down behind some brush, dragging Tahir down with her. The dragon took off, in the direction they had been heading in, quickly vanishing from sight. The fireballs suddenly ceased, leaving the total silence aside from the sound of burning wood and stone, and screams and cries of pain. 

Firien exchanged a glance with Tahir, then together, they began to run in the direction the dragon had gone. She didn’t know about Tahir, but she assumed going where the dragon had already gone would be the safest option.

—

With Helgen now far behind them and a small, quiet village alongside a river now in view, Tahir allowed them to stop for breath. The dragon had not returned to their knowledge, and though they weren’t exactly relaxed, Firien had deemed it safe enough to stop with Tahir. Her face and arms were covered in scratches from running through thick brambles and closely-knit trees. Her fingers were sore from how tightly she gripped the war axe in her hand, refusing to loosen her grip for even a second. The sun was low in the sky, and the shadows were long and dark.

“We need a plan,” said Tahir, looking at her. Firien noticed for the first time that he wore only furs and leather armor, and carried two scimitars on his hip.

“We?” she echoed.

“We,” confirmed Tahir. “We need to stick together. At least until I get to Whiterun. Then we can go our separate ways.”

Firien narrowed her eyes at him. “Fine.”

“It would be wiser to stick together,” said Tahir as he began walking again, toward the village. “What brings you to Skyrim, anyway?”

“Work,” Firien said shortly.

“Hey, me too,” said Tahir. “Well, I want join the Companions. I’ve heard they lead pretty decent lives there. Going out on jobs and seeing the world, getting paid good money to kill a man or rescue a dog or something, free food, bed, and plenty of ale. Sounds like a good time to me. You should come. You seem to be able to handle yourself alright. You handled yourself very well in the face of a dragon, despite one not being seen in centuries.”

“Yes, well, I don’t think I’d fit in very well with your little guild,” said Firien snidely. She had heard of the Companions, long ago, spun in tales told by her father when he would take her on walks on his shoulders through Valenwood. The Five-Hundred Companions of Ysgramor, someone well-known for hating her people. In fact, his very weapon, a battle axe called Wuuthrad, was notorious among elves. After all, it had also gained the nickname “Elf-grinder.”

“Why’s that?” asked Tahir with a tilt of his head.

“In case you haven’t noticed,” said Firien, as if talking to a very small child, “I’m a Bosmer, and you should brush up on your history. Nords aren’t exactly fond of Elves of any sort, the Companions least of all. You, at least, have a chance because Redguards are better than Elves in the eyes of the Nords. To see a Bosmer go to a Nord-founded Guild in the Nord trade capital of the Nord region is almost laughable.”

“Your designation was still Skyrim anyway,” Tahir pointed out.

“To be a knife for hire,” retorted Firien. “A mercenary. Not a Companion. There’s a difference.”

“Hardly,” said Tahir, but Firien ignored him.

Riverwood (as they had discovered it was called by a local they passed by on their way in, who was also kind enough to direct them to the inn) was a sleepy little village, though the small settlement wasn’t what Firien would call “run down” but it wasn’t the nicest place she had ever been to either. The village was composed of an inn, a trader, a mill, a forge, and a few houses. It was a very pleasant setting, and it almost made her forget that mere hours ago, they had witnessed and survived the first dragon attack in years.

As the sky settled into a dusky twilight, Firien made her way to the inn, Tahir close behind her.

The Sleeping Giant was quiet, with a bard playing a lute in the corner. A few patrons were seated around the fire or at tables, and the innkeeper stood behind the counter, deep in conversation with a clean-shaven man who looked to be in his early twenties. The innkeeper abruptly cut off her conversation as Firien and Tahir approached.

“Welcome,” she said warmly. “I’m Delphine. What can I do for you?”

“Two rooms and two warm meals,” said Firien.

“Of course,” said Delphine. “That’ll be ten septims each.”

Firien dug the coin pouch out of her pocket and Tahir did the same. After she placed her money in Delphine’s waiting hand, she made a mental note to count her coin later and be sure she had enough to purchase a new axe once they reached Whiterun, and before she would be on her way. Small weapons didn’t bother her, but she preferred something with more weight to it, that she would have no problem putting all her strength into.

“I’ll show you to your rooms,” she said. “Excuse me, Sven.”

She lead them to their rooms and smiled at them again. “Let me know if you need anything else. Your meals will be ready shortly.”

After she had walked away, Firien turned to Tahir. “We leave at sunrise. I want to get to Whiterun as soon as possible. This place feels… naked without walls or soldiers.”

“I agree,” said Tahir. “I’ll see you at sunrise then.”

Firien nodded and they parted ways. Once she was in the safety of her room, she pulled out her coin purse. She was glad she had grabbed it, because it meant some part of her believed she could survive the dragon attack. 

When Firien finished counting her coin (forty-six septims, to be precise), she pulled out a book from one of the end tables.

“A Hypothetical Treachery, a one-act play,” she read aloud.

She made herself comfortable on the bed and began to read. She got three and a half pages in when there was a soft knock on her door and Delphine poked her head in.

“Dinner is served,” she said and set a tray laden with a bowl of venison stew, a loaf of bread, and a mug of ale on the small table in the room. When the door had closed behind Delphine, Firien got up from the bed and crossed room to the table. She sat and began wolfing down her food, not realizing til that moment just how hungry she had been. She didn’t know when she last ate either, now that she thought about it. It had been a long journey from Orisinium, her last long-term stop, where she had lived amongst the Orcs for nearly a year, hiding from the rest of the world between the high peaks of the sharpest, tallest mountains she had ever seen.

When her stew was gone and the last dregs of her ale had slid down her throat, she once again made herself comfortable in the bed. She grabbed the book from where she left it on the end table and continued reading, she found herself unable to focus on the pages before her. Her mind was flicking from thought to thought, replaying the day’s events over and over. Part of her was angry this had all happened. She had spent many months traveling alone, avoiding main roads and hiding from caravans, convincing herself it would all change once she reached Skyrim. She would find some relief and sanctuary. She wasn’t a wanted criminal, but she didn’t want to take any chances of running into the wrong people.

Which is exactly what she had been unable to avoid. And there was a dragon attack, to boot.

At least the damned thing saved her life.

Shaking her head violently, she continued to try to force herself read, but only got a few more pages when she slowly drifted off to sleep.

—

The sun had just peaked up over the mountains to the east when they reached the pinnacle of a small mountain and Whiterun finally came into view. It was surrounded by farmland and vast plains, which melted into forests and mountains to the north and west. To the east, she saw more mountains, and the river they had been following dropped down into the valley before forking off. One fork snaked around the base of Whiterun, and it seemed to come from a grate at the base of the walls surrounding the city, and the other lazily wound toward the easterly mountains before finally disappearing around a bend. The hold itself, from what Firien could see, had been built up on a lone hill, with what she could only assume to be the Jarl’s palace towering over the rest of the city.

“There it is,” said Tahir, sounding proud and wistful all at once. “I’ve been waiting for so long to get here.”

Firien looked at him curiously, but didn’t ask. Without another word, she began descending the rocky slope, following the road as closely as she could. 

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for the mercenary type,” said Tahir suddenly. “Probably something more like a court wizard or potions master or something.”

“I don’t deal with magic.”

“Why not?”

Firien didn’t answer him. 

“Why not join one of the armies?” asked Tahir, accepting her silence as an answer.

“Because if I’m going to kill, I’d rather get paid damn well for it,” she said firmly.

“What, no love for the Stormcloaks?” Tahir said teasingly.

“No love for war,” replied Firien.

They fell silent after that, and Firien watched as the scenery around them changed. As they ventured further into the basin, the trees disappeared and the main body of the river ventured off to the northeast, and soon, tall grass and flat farmland took their place. Behind them, the steep slopes of what she could only assume was a massive mountain rose up, disappearing into low-hanging clouds, obscuring the peak of the mountain from her view. Whiterun was closer than ever, and various farms and a meadery dotted the surrounding land. To the far west was a watchtower, a mere speck on the horizon, and just below Whiterun’s high walls was a stable.

Firien was taking in all the sights when Tahir suddenly nudged her and pointed to their left. Firien followed his indication to see three warriors fighting a giant, of all things, in the middle of one of the farms. Firien frowned.

So far her experience in Skyrim had been very bizarre.

“Shall we join the fun?” asked Tahir.

“I would hardly refer to a giant as ‘fun,’ but I suppose,” said Firien as she drew her axe. 

Tahir drew his scimitars and took off toward the battle, Firien close on his heels. When they arrived, the giant was swinging its massive club around aimlessly, and the three warriors seemed like they were having the time of their lives. A fierce redhead with green warpaint like three scratch marks across her face was shooting arrows at him from a reasonable distance, laughing the entire time as her arrows deliberately hit non-fatal areas of the giant’s body, while a large man with shaggy dark hair and dark warpaint around his surprisingly bright eyes swung at it with a great sword with a large grin on his face. An Imperial woman hung back a bit, occasionally hacking at the beast with her sword when it came too close to her. Of the three of them, she looked like she was enjoying it the least.

Tahir lithely ran up to it and stabbed one of his scimitars into its thigh, and used it as leverage to swing himself up enough to tear a large gash in the giant’s belly with his other scimitar. The redhead cheered him on and shot a perfectly aimed arrow into the gaping wound. The giant roared and swatted at Tahir with its free hand, sending him flying away from it. 

Tahir landed on the ground in a heap and laughed loudly, obviously thoroughly enjoying himself. The large man swung at that arm as it came back down and successfully lopped off its hand. Firien rolled her eyes and decided to put the poor thing out of its misery. She threw her axe with all her might, and, while she was thanking all the gods that she had excellent aim, the axe buried itself in the giant’s skull, right in the temple. The giant dropped to the ground with a massive thud that shook the ground.

“Aww, you killed it,” said the redhead with a pout.

“It was suffering,” said Firien. “You were just prolonging the inevitable. Which is cruel.”

“Fair enough,” said the redhead as she approached Firien and Tahir. “I’m Aela the Huntress, and this is Ria,” the Imperial, “and Farkas,” the large man.

“I’m Tahir, and this is Firien!”

Aela nodded to them both in turn and Firien shifted uncomfortably when she noticed that Farkas was watching her closely.

“You two seem pretty capable,” said Aela with a wide grin. “Lucky for you two we happen to be recruiting! You should come up to Jorrvaskr with us and speak to the old man, Kodlak Whitemane.”

While Jorrvaskr and Kodlak Whitemane meant nothing to Firien, mention of them seemed to have an affect on Tahir.

“You’re Companions?” he asked in awe.

“Yup!” said Ria proudly. “I’ve been a Companion for three months now. We have room for two more!”

“I think not,” said Firien coldly. “Tahir is free to do as he wishes but I wouldn’t fit in very well with your Guild.”

She had too much pride to allow herself to be laughed out of Whiterun, not after how far she had come and what she had been through, including facing the chopping block and a dragon attack.

“What are you talking about?” asked Aela, frowning.

“Nords don’t like Elves,” said Firien plainly. “Ysgramor was notorious for murdering my people.”

Aela laughed and Firien grit her teeth, wondering if it was too soon to dislike her. “The Companions have evolved since the days of Ysgramor and the Five Hundred Companions. We even have a Dunmer in the Guild. His name is Athis. You’ll do fine. At least speak to Kodlak. Give it a chance.”

Firien had the feeling that Aela didn’t understand her discomfort with joining the Companions. However, she didn’t say anything as Aela promptly turned on her heel and sauntered away, Ria and Tahir close behind her, Tahir no doubt asking them questions about the Companions. Firien stared after them and nearly jumped when she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder. Farkas loomed over her with a small smile and when he spoke, his voice was softer and huskier than she had ever heard for a man so large.

“Give us a chance and we’ll give you a chance,” he said. “What you did with that axe was really impressive. I’ve never seen something so small take down something so large.”

“Trust me,” said Firien as she stared down at the war axe, “I’m in the market for something bigger.”

“My kind of girl,” chuckled Farkas, and he steered her up to Whiterun where she would undoubtedly start her new life. Firien wished he would release her, but for whatever reasons, something told her to allow herself to be guided. Just this once.

The city itself was peaceful. There were children playing in the streets and merchants selling their wares. Farkas explained to her that the city had three tiers, three districts. The Plains district, which was mostly shops and two inns, the Winds district, which was purely residential, and held the Skyforge, where Eorlund Greymane forged weapons and armor for the Companions, and Jorrvaskr, which was home to them. Then there was the Cloud district, which was where the Jarl’s palace, Dragonsreach, was. As they arrived in the Winds district, they passed a large, dead tree in the center of a small courtyard, which Farkas said was called the Gilder Green, and once it was the pride and joy of Whiterun.

As they veered to the right, toward a wide flight of steps, a man stood to the left of the steps, before a large shrine of Talos. He was screaming about Talos and how great he was, with spittle flying from his mouth. Firien made a tiny noise of disgust, which Farkas somehow heard, and he looked toward the source of her annoyance.

“Oh, that’s Heimskr,” said Farkas passively. “He’s harmless, but annoying. Don’t worry, he usually stays there or in his home. He doesn’t bother us and we don’t bother him.”

Firien merely nodded, and directed her attention to their destination, Jorrvaskr. It looked as if an ancient Nord longboat had been flipped upside down and placed upon a roofless building, and it was fairly large. Firien stared at it in awe, and Farkas chuckled.

“It’s nothin’ spectacular, but it’s home.”

Then, her eyes drifted upward, behind Jorrvaskr, and she stopped in shock as she beheld the tallest mountain she had ever seen. The low-hanging clouds she had seen before had only obscured the peak from her view where she had been standing. Here, though, she saw that the tops of the clouds didn’t even reach halfway up the mountain. The peak itself was so high that she had to crane her neck back to see it.

Farkas had noticed she stopped, and he turned back to her, only to follow her gaze.

“Ah,” he said with a chuckle. “I take it you’ve never seen the Throat of the World before?”

“That’s the Throat?” she asked in awe.

“Yeah,” said Farkas. “Tallest mountain in all of Tamriel, and only few make the journey of the Seven Thousand Steps. Never done it myself, but I hear it’s worth the trip.”

“Worth the trip,” Firien echoed faintly as she continued to stare up at the mountain.

“Come on,” said Farkas. “Kodlak is waiting.”

Firien halted in her steps. “I can’t. I need to speak to the Jarl about something. Can you tell me how to get to the palace?”

“Dragonsreach? It’s easy! Just go up those stairs, and it will take you straight there.” He pointed behind Firien, and she indeed saw a very tall, multi-leveled flight of stairs that led to the palace she had seen from the plains. “Do you need company?”

“No,” she said quickly, harshly. “I think this is something I can handle on my own.”

Then she walked away, toward the stairs leading to Dragonsreach, leaving Farkas standing alone in front of Jorrvaskr.

Once she reached the top and started crossing the short bridge that crossed over a deep pool, a guard by the palace door raised a hand, halting her.

“What business do you have with the Jarl?” she asked, her voice heavily accented.

“I come to warn him of a dragon attack on Helgen,” Firien stated.

“A dragon attack?” The guard exchanged a glance with her colleague, and after a moment, the two of them began laughing. “Have you been hitting the skooma, knife-ear?”

Firien sneered at them. “Not as hard as you, apparently. You seem to have taken leave of your senses.”

The guard stopped laughing and frowned at Firien. “Why should we believe you?”

“Helgen is gone,” Firien snapped. “Go out there and see for yourself. The keep is gone.”

The guard gaped at her. “It is?”

“Let me speak to the Jarl,” Firien said. “If I’m lying, I’m sure he will see through a proper punishment.”

“She sounds confident,” said the other guard. He leaned his shield against the wall behind him. “I will let you pass, but you had better be telling the truth.”

“I am,” Firien said. With that, the guard opened the door for her, and she set foot into Dragonsreach for the first time.

The palace was larger than it looked from outside. As the door closed behind her, Firien took in the wide throne room, the high ceilings, and the massive fire pit that was up yet another flight of stairs, and centered in the middle of the room. Beyond that, the Jarl sat in his throne, under the great skull of a dragon, deep in conversation with a large, tan-skinned man.

The moment Firien reached the fire pit, an armored Dunmer woman approached her, a haughty expression on her face, and her hand on the pommel of a sword at her hip.

“What is the meaning of this interruption?” she demanded coldly. “Jarl Balgruuf isn’t receiving visitors.”

“I have news from Helgen, about a dragon attack,” said Firien, matching the Dunmer’s hostile attitude.

“You know about Helgen?” she asked, sounding shocked. Her attitude quickly changed to begrudging. “Very well. The Jarl will want to speak with you. Approach.”

Firien refrained from rolling her eyes as the Dunmer relaxed her guard and stood aside, allowing Firien to pass. Firien brushed past her and came to a stop a respectable distance from Jarl Balgruuf. He was definitely an impressive man, with straw-colored locks, a full beard, and a circlet that sat proudly at the top of his head.

“So,” he said, looking Firien up and down. “You were at Helgen? You saw this dragon with your own eyes?”

Firien frowned, wondering how word had reached Balgruuf so quickly.

“Yes,” said Firien snidely. “I had a great view of the beast while the Imperials were trying to cut off my head.”

“Really?” said Balgruuf, sounding impressed. He leaned back in his throne. “You’re certainly... forthright in your criminal past.”

“I am no criminal,” Firien snarled. “I was wrongfully captured, and wrongfully accused. Do not mistake their generalization for proper justice.”

Balgruuf held up his hands. “It’s none of my concern who the Imperials want to execute. Especially now. What I want to know is what happened at Helgen.”

“The dragon destroyed Helgen,” Firien said. “Last I saw, it was heading this way.”

“By Ysmir! Irileth was right!” Balgruuf exclaimed. He glanced toward the Dunmer woman, Irileth, who looked smug. He turned his attention to a small, balding man to his right. He had been so still and quiet, cowering in Balgruuf’s shadow that Firien hadn’t noticed him until now. “What do you say now, Proventus? Should we continue to trust in the strength of our walls? Against a dragon?”

“My lord,” said Irileth, stepping forward before the man called Proventus could respond. “We should send out troops to Riverwood at once. “It’s in the most immediate danger, if that dragon is lurking in the mountains—“

“The Jarl of Falkreath will view that as a provocation!” Proventus interrupted sharply. Irileth looked outraged at his audacity. “He’ll assume we’re preparing to join Ulfric’s side and attack him. We should not—“

“Enough!” barked Balgruuf, and Firien got the sense these two bickered frequently. “I’ll not stand idly while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people! Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once.”

“Yes, my Jarl,” Irileth responded, and quickly departed, casting one last suspicious look at Firien.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll return to my duties,” said Proventus, sounding annoyed that Irileth had gotten her way. He disappeared through a doorway, leaving Firien and Balgruuf alone. 

“Well done,” said Balgruuf. “You sought me out, and on your own initiative. You have done Whiterun a great service, and I won’t forget it.”

Firien only nodded.

“You may go,” Balgruuf said. “You have given me much to think about. Tell Hulda down at the Bannered Mare that I will take care of your boarding fees for as long as necessary. If she protests, tell her she still owes me for Midyear. She will understand.”

Firien nodded again, and left Dragonsreach to find her way to the Bannered Mare. As she passed Jorrvaskr, she saw the doors were wide open, and warm light, loud laughter, and boisterous singing spilled from them. For a brief moment, she considered joining them, but thought better of it and continued down to the inn.

Hulda had indeed been skeptical, but relented once Firien relayed Balgruuf’s message. She gave Firien a private room upstairs, and later brought her a meal consisting of bread, cheese, and a huge hunk of meat, complete with a tankard of a slightly spicy mead.

When she was finished with her meal, she removed the war axe from her belt and set it on the end table. Then she quickly unlaced the leather cuirass and set it on a chair in the corner of a room. She definitely wanted to keep that; it fit her well and was light and comfortable, and was similar to the one she had worn before the Imperials captured her.

She kicked off her boots, then removed the roughspun clothes they had forced her into and neatly folded them, placing them on top of the cuirass. Tomorrow, she would have to find clothes that were more comfortable and less itchy. Perhaps she could also find a new axe somewhere.

With that thought in her mind, she allowed herself to climb into the bed, hoping that she would be able to get a decent night’s sleep for the first time in months. She was safe, in a walled city surrounded by guards, and for once, didn’t feel as though she had to watch her own back.

—

Firien found herself wandering around Whiterun the next morning. It really was a pleasant city, full of bustling people from all across Tamriel.

Currently, she sat on a low wall in front of the Bannered Mare, watching people walk by as she ate a honey nut treat she had purchased from a nearby stall. At one point, she had returned to the inn to change into her new clothes, a pair of soft black leggings, boots that actually fit her feet, and a nice dark blue tunic with orange embroidery along the collar that went down the center of her front, and on the hems and sleeves. She had fitted the cuirass over the tunic, though it wasn’t entirely necessary.

Unfortunately, she was still stuck with the war axe. After the had purchased her clothes, she was left with just enough Septims to buy a traveling cloak and the honey nut treat she currently ate. The traveling cloak wasn’t an immediate necessity, but she didn’t think she would be sticking around Whiterun very long, and since she had lost her last one to the Imperials, a replacement had weighed on her mind. 

The treat she had purchased because she was hungry, and she wanted it.

“There you are!” said a familiar voice, and Firien frowned. “What happened to you last night?”

“I did what we should have done and informed the Jarl about Helgen,” Firien said to Tahir, tossing the stick of the now-eaten honey nut treat into a nearby basin of burning coals. She watched as the stick immediately caught fire. “I thought that might be a bit more important than playing warrior with your new friends.”

“Well, my new friends have already seen me settled and comfortable,” said Tahir, holding up a coin purse. “They housed and fed me, and I already did an errand for them. I handled a skeever that was living in an old lady’s basement. I got paid twenty-five septims to do that! Isn’t that mad? And Kodlak Whitemane is amazing! I had my arm tested by Farkas, because his brother was away for the night. He’s a bit of an ass, but Farkas says it’s easy to ignore him—“

Firien sighed as Tahir kept chattering about the Companions and looked down at the small axe at her waist. She really did miss her battleaxe.

“Fine,” she snapped, interrupting him. “Take me to the damned Companions, and please, for the love of Y’ffre, shut up about them.”

Tahir jumped up excitedly, and dragged her to her feet. She had just enough time to grab her new cloak, which had been sitting on the wall beside her, before Tahir lead her to Jorrvaskr, dragging her into the mead hall. It was crowded in there, and Firien was immediately introduced to the other whelps; Torvar, Athis, and Njada Stonearm. Athis had looked her over appraisingly with a murmur of, “Azura’s wisdom to you, friend.”

Firien assumed he was just relieved to have another elf show up, and would no longer be the odd one out.

Farkas approached her then, and he looked very happy to see her. “You’re here!”

“Not by choice,” Firien said begrudgingly.

He chuckled. “Well, I have a feeling this is where you belong. Kodlak is downstairs, in his study. Speak to him, and he’ll pass judgement on you. But I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

He turned to Tahir.

“I was just looking for you,” he continued. “Finished with that skeever job?”

“Aye?” said Tahir.

“Good. Want to spar?”

Tahir grinned widely and patted his the hilts of scimitars, which hung in their scabbard at his waist. “Sure. Felt like we didn’t do enough yesterday.”

“Great,” replied Farkas eagerly. As he turned to follow Tahir out, he paused, patted Firien’s shoulder, and smiled at her warmly. “Kodlak’s study is down the stairs and to the right, all the way at the end. Good luck.”

“Good luck?” she asked. “Why would I need luck? You said I would be fine.”

Farkas and Tahir exchanged a look, and Tahir smiled slyly.

“It’s not Kodlak you need to worry about,” said Farkas, and he gave her a light shove toward the stairs. “Go! Come find me later.”

Firien glanced at him one last time, thrown off by his friendliness, before heading down the stairs, holding her head high to feign arrogance so her nerves wouldn’t betray her. Why she was nervous, she didn’t know. Whether this Kodlak accepted her or not, she would survive. If he rejected her, she would forget all about Farkas and Tahir and the Companions and continue on with her life to be a mercenary. Yet, at the very back of her mind, she found herself wondering who else was down here that could be so harsh that even Farkas thought she needed to worry. Pushing that thought from her head, she followed his directions and paused outside the door, hearing a snippet of conversation on the other side.

“But I still hear the call of the blood,” said a slightly accented voice. To Firien, it sounded as if she was about to interrupt a very important conversation. So she stopped, unsure of what to do.

“We all do,” responded a more gravelly voice, most likely belonging to Kodlak. “It is our burden to bear. But we can overcome.”

“You have my brother and I, obviously,” said the first voice. “But I don’t know if the rest will go along quite so easily.”

“Leave that to me,” replied Kodlak.

Firien took that moment to knock on the door, choosing to not bother herself with any discussion of blood calling, and she entered the room slowly. Two men sat at a small table. An older man, whom she assumed was Kodlak, and a younger man who looked exactly like Farkas, with shorter hair, a slighter build, and a narrower face. Yet the facial features were the exact same. She blinked in surprise, but didn’t say anything. She had never seen two identical people before, and it was eerie to her. 

Firien drew in a deep breath and spoke more confidently than she felt. “I’m... here to join the Companions.”

Kodlak eyed her for a moment. “Would you now? Here, let me have a look at you. Hm. Yes, perhaps. A certain strength of spirit.” 

The younger man spoke up suddenly, his tone cold and calculating. “Master, you’re not truly considering accepting her? She’s barely the size of a child.”

Firien glared at him. In her defense, most children she had met were shorter than her.

“I am nobody’s master, Vilkas,” said Kodlak sternly. “And last I checked, we had some empty beds in Jorrvaskr for those with a fire burning in their hearts... regardless of their stature.”

“Apologies,” said Vilkas, not sounding apologetic at all. “But perhaps this isn’t the time. I’ve never even heard of this outsider.”

Firien was starting to see what Farkas had meant when he said she needn’t worry about Kodlak. For just a moment, she hoped Vilkas would successfully convince Kodlak to turn her away.

Then Kodlak sighed heavily. “Sometimes the famous come to us. Sometimes men and women come to us to seek their fame. It makes no difference. What matters is their heart.”

Firien felt a twinge of disappointment, and remained silent.

“And their arm,” said Vilkas drily.

Kodlak turned back to Firien, the faintest of smiles on his lips. “Of course. How are you in a battle, girl?”

“I still have much to learn,” replied Firien. Kodlak did not seem like the type she should boast to. Nor, to his credit, did Vilkas. Yet she spoke true. She had never been in a battle before, and most of her experience in a fight had been more intimate.

“That’s the spirit!” said Kodlak. “Vilkas, take her out to the courtyard and test her arm, will you? It would truly be Shor’s blessing to gain two new recruits in as many days!”

“Very well,” said Vilkas. He stood and stalked past her, barely even glancing in her direction.

Firien cast one last look at Kodlak, who shrugged with a small smile, then followed Vilkas through the living quarters and up the stairs. As they walked through the mead hall, she saw Farkas and Tahir chatting animatedly, clearly never having made it to sparring. As Vilkas blew through with Firien behind him, they ceased their conversation and followed them out to the training yard. Vilkas roughly gestured to a weapons rack and said, “Pick your poison. Unless that hatchet on your belt will do.”

Firien suddenly felt a small smile tugging on her lips upon seeing a battleaxe among the weapons. She picked it off the rack and weighed it in her hands. A little light for her tastes, with a shorter handle than she’d like, but it’ll do. When she turned back to Vilkas, she wasn’t at all surprised to see him watching her skeptically. Farkas and Tahir were sitting at a table behind him, watching them intently. Firien removed the iron war axe from her belt and hung it on the rack before running the palm of her hand down the flat side of the steel blade.

“If you’re sure…” said Vilkas, still skeptical. “You don’t want to try something… well… smaller?”

“No, I know what I want,” said Firien, as if it were the most obvious weapon of choice for her. Which it was.

“Very well,” said Vilkas. “Just… take a swing at me. All I will do is block. So go ahead whenever you’re ready.”

Firien had the element of surprise to her advantage. Vilkas didn’t think she could handle a battleaxe, but little did he know she had been using battleaxes since she was just a child. She knew her strengths and he didn’t.

Without warning, Firien swung the battleaxe over her head and brought it down on Vilkas. He had just enough time to block it with his steel great sword, and even then, he still staggered back as the two blades sparked upon collision. He glared at her when she smirked triumphantly.

“Never underestimate your opponent,” she told him, knowing that’s exactly what Vilkas had done.

Behind him, Farkas and Tahir were trying to muffle their snickers of amusement. Vilkas shot them a withering look before stomping back toward Jorrvaskr. 

“I need you to go retrieve Aela’s shield from Eorlund,” he said coldly, not turning to look back at her. “Welcome to the Companions, whelp.”  


With that, he slammed the door behind him, leaving Firien standing in the courtyard alone, battleaxe still in her hands. Her shoulders sagged, half with relief and half with trepidation.

She was a Companion now.

Farkas approached her with Tahir and he clapped her on the shoulder.

“I knew you would do well,” said Tahir. “You’re very capable.”

Firien squared her shoulders, and she couldn’t help but cast a worried glance toward where Vilkas had disappeared.

“Don’t worry,” said Farkas. “My brother may be an ass but he has a good heart. He’ll come around to you two. He always does. Come, Eorlund is at the Skyforge, which is this way.”

“You two can go,” said Tahir. “I’m starved. I still want to spar, Farkas!”

Then he was gone, following Vilkas into Jorrvaskr, leaving Firien to follow Farkas to the Skyforge, apprehension weighing in her heart. If this was her life now, would she be safe from Imperials and Stormcloaks and dragons? 

She had no idea, but she supposed it could be worth a shot.

Eorlund Greymane was a large, muscular man with many scars and burns from his years as a blacksmith. He had the appearance and aura of someone to not cross, and held a large hammer in his right hand. Behind him, the Skyforge glowed brightly, with multiple weapons sitting along the ledge, their blades red hot. Upon learning why Firien was there, he curtly handed her the shield Vilkas had mentioned with a grunt of, “Here.” 

His eyes swept over Firien, and to the axe that she now held over her shoulder.

“That will never do,” he said shortly. “Return to me tomorrow. I’ll have something for you.”

Then, to Firien’s bewilderment, he turned away and began hammering out a sword that had been sitting on the forge. As they left, Firien cast Farkas an inquiring look, and he shrugged in response.

“Eorlund knows your weapon just by looking at you,” he explained. “Don’t worry, he’ll have the perfect weapon for you tomorrow.”

“Why couldn’t Kodlak test me?” she asked suddenly, and Farkas looked nervous.

“Kodlak is ill,” he said, hesitation clear in his voice. “He’s still the best damned Harbinger we could ask for, but he fell ill about a year ago. All of Whiterun’s alchemists and healers have tried to help him, but all they can do is slow the progression of it.”

“What ails him?” Firien asked, suddenly very curious.

“The Rot,” said Farkas, his voice now tinged with a deep sadness.

Firien said nothing in response. She had no experience with the Rot, but she knew that it would eventually wear down the body and wreak havoc on the mind.

“It’s okay,” said Farkas hastily. “He’s strong. He’ll be okay.”

Firien could tell Farkas was mostly trying to convince himself, more than he was trying to convince her.

Shaking her head slightly, she followed Farkas back to the mead hall, where he and Tahir immediately began loudly arguing about who could drink the most ale, all thoughts of Kodlak’s ailment seemingly gone.

Firien sat nearby, opting to observe. She had only known Tahir for a few days, but he had still managed to persuade her to try the Companions out, and she could feel herself begrudgingly growing fond of him. Sure, he may be loud, vain, and painfully optimistic, but there were worse people out there.

The teasing grin he threw toward her told her that he seemed to enjoy her company as well. Firien supposed that was alright; it had been too long since she had a friend.


	2. Riley- Howard Shore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have mentioned that chapter titles will be after songs that I listened to for inspiration or daydreamed a scene to! 
> 
> Also I know death is a harsh sentence for thievery but... it’s Skyrim and everyone attacks you for killing a chicken, so.
> 
> This chapter isn’t as long as the first one, but it’s all just fillers to get the ball rolling (and to show off Firien’s tracking and waterskin-making skills). Enjoy!

“You never told me,” Firien said suddenly, looking up from the small chunk of wood in her hands. “Why were you at Helgen?”

Tahir sighed heavily and ceased running his whetstone along the blade of his right-hand scimitar. They were sitting on the steps that connected Jorrvaskr’s back porch with the training yard, recovering in the shade of the awning from a very enthusiastic sparring session. It was early morning and the ground and plants were glistening with frost, yet Tahir and Firien were sweating and exhausted from the ferocity of their spar. Tahir found Firien to be a delightful sparring partner, since his crafty dual-wielding was so drastically different from her blunt and forceful two-handed axe. Yet she was light and quick on her feet, but Tahir, though larger than she, kept up with her easily. It proved a challenge for both of them.

Yes, Firien finally had a new axe. Not that it had been very hard for her to acquire. The day after the had joined the Companions, Eorlund called her to the Skyforge and presented the new Skyforge steel battle axe to her, in exchange for her helping him around the forge for a week, since she had yet to be sent out on any jobs and had no money to pay for it with.

Upon hearing the Companions had their own blacksmith, Tahir had hurried up to the Skyforge to meet him immediately, explaining his interest in smithing as well as the ancient Redguard art of Sword-singing. Eorlund, after testing Tahir’s ability, had told Tahir that he was more than welcome to use the Skyforge, so long as Eorlund was there to supervise him.

Beyond that, Tahir and Firien hadn’t really done much in the two weeks they had been with the Companions. The Circle (which, they learned, consisted of Kodlak, the Harbinger, Vilkas, the Master at Arms, Farkas, Skjor, and Aela, who were all trusted advisors of Kodlak) hadn’t really interacted with them at all, aside from Farkas, who was always eager to lend a hand or a guiding word. He often observed their sparring sessions, occasionally barking out directions to Firien, and suggestions to Tahir, as it was mostly his responsibility to oversee sparring sessions among the whelps and make sure nobody got killed (“It’s happened a few times,” Farkas had explained darkly. “The most recent being some poor Breton boy. It was a couple years ago, but he was killed by his sparring partner, who was actually trying to prove the strength of her arm. Vilkas and I had been out on a job and Aela had thought it wise to set her up against the newest whelp and she killed him. Severed his spine, actually. She still hangs around the Bannered Mare, but we avoid her and she avoids us.”).

“Well,” Tahir stirred from his thoughts and straightened up. “I suppose, like you, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Firien looked at him quizzically and he grinned.

“I just happened to be snatching up a lonely-looking apple that seemed eager for some company from an Imperial wagon,” said Tahir with a shrug. “It happened just as an Imperial soldier rolled out of his bed roll and walked by to… relieve himself. I suppose I ruined that for him.”

Firien grimaced. Tahir heard the doors behind them open and close, but he paid it no mind. Firien looked back down at the piece of wood she was carving into with a short, broad knife. “So you actually committed a crime and got, what, a day of jail time? I did nothing wrong and got the chopping block.”

“It’s not like you actually died,” Tahir said. “I was actually there before you. Not by long, though.”

Firien remembered waking up with all of her belongings missing, as well as her clothes, and she turned away from Tahir. “When I awoke... All my belongings were gone, including my clothes... Did anything—?”

“No,” said Tahir harshly, cutting her off and surprising her. “I saw to that.” He paused, as if considering something. “It wasn’t the apple. They arrested me because I attacked one of their men. I didn’t kill him, sadly. I was just passing by, careful to avoid being seein, when I saw him undressing you while you were unconscious, out of view of the rest of the caravan. And I attacked. I think they drugged you, too, because you were out for a long time, and through a lot, too. Apparently he was only going to change you into prisoner clothes. They were going to sell your belongings. I didn’t know that was all he was doing, though, and I still don’t.”

He glowered darkly at the ground before him.

“Well... I’m glad you did,” said Firien awkwardly. She had a far away look on her face, and Tahir wished he knew what she was thinking.

“I’m going to take that as a ‘thank you’ and say you’re welcome,” Tahir replied with a smirk.

“I wonder what happened to him,” said Firien thoughtfully, ignoring Tahir’s comment.

“Oh, I saw! When the dragon made it rain fire, one of the boulders smashed him. It was a sight to behold, indeed.”

He glanced at Firien, who had a far-away look on her face, but at the same time, she looked... smug? Tahir laughed loudly, knowing she probably enjoyed the soldier’s gruesome demise.

As he did so, Vilkas brushed by him and looked down at him with a sneer. 

“What, no smiling allowed?” asked Tahir innocently, batting his eyelashes up at Vilkas.

“Smiling is fine,” said Vilkas. “But you haven’t really done anything since you got here. Go ask Aela or Farkas for a job, rather than wasting your time and mine.”

“Wow,” said Tahir loudly and sarcastically as Vilkas began to walk away. “I wonder why Kodlak doesn’t see fit to give you the power to hand out jobs as well.”

Vilkas whirled around, his lips twisted into a snarl. “I only give jobs to those who have proven themselves worthy of it. I don’t have time for whelps who have nothing better to do than shovel shit all day.”

Tahir flushed angrily. A few days after he had joined, a mysterious someone (he knew it was Vilkas) assigned him a job to muck the paddock that the Battle-born clan’s cow lived in. Tahir has accepted the job begrudgingly, because the pay was at least decent, but he was furious with Vilkas by the time he was done. It was very clear that no one had bothered with the paddock in quite some time.

Tahir leapt to his feet and opened his mouth furiously to respond, but he was cut off by another voice.

“Vilkas, that’s enough!” 

Tahir was pleased to see the blood drain from Vilkas’ face before it quickly returned, staining his cheeks red as he turned to see Skjor standing behind him.

“I thought you better than this,” said Skjor with some amusement. “It’s not like you to let whelps get to you.”

Vilkas only glared at Skjor silently.

“Kodlak asked me to fetch you,” said Skjor, his tone suddenly turning serious. “It pertains to our... ailment. He says it’s urgent.”

Vilkas’ expression suddenly turned eager. “Of course. I’ll go to him immediately.”

When he hurried off, Skjor called out, “Remember to play nice with the other whelps if you see them!”

Vilkas sent him a nasty look over his shoulder before he disappeared into Jorrvaskr. When he was gone, Skjor turned back to Tahir, who was still fuming. “Don’t let him get to you, pup. He’s had quite the stick lodged up his ass recently.”

“Yeah well he can take it out on someone else,” Tahir huffed.

“He’ll get over it eventually,” said Skjor. Then he glanced at Firien. “I sought you two out for a reason. Well, two reasons actually.”

Behind Tahir, Firien got to her feet and approached them. When she was standing curiously beside Tahir, Skjor continued.

“The first thing was about Helgen. You two said you came from there, yeah?”

“Aye,” said Tahir as Firien nodded.

“I’ve heard rumors about a dragon attack,” said Skjor. “I haven’t been out there to see for myself yet, but is the keep really gone?”

“Yes,” said Firien. “It was destroyed by a great black dragon. We somehow managed to escape. I don’t know how it happened because everything moved so quickly, but we survived.”

“Perhaps the Divines want to keep you around for a higher purpose,” said Skjor with a hint of teasing in his tone. “But in all seriousness, thank you. Aela and I are leaving on a hunt tonight and we were planning on heading out in that direction. I doubt the dragon is still around, but you never know... I can’t believe there’s a dragon loose in Skyrim. No one’s heard of such a thing in many, many years.”

“I know,” said Tahir, but so many people had questioned him about Helgen since he joined the Companions that he had lost interest long ago. He was more curious about the other thing Skjor had mentioned. “But what’s this about a hunt?”

“Ah,” said Skjor with renewed enthusiasm. “We hunt our own game so the townspeople don’t have to provide for us, as they have enough to provide for. Most of the time, it’s just Aela and I who go, but sometimes the twins come along as well.”

Firien suddenly looked much more interested. “Can I come along sometime?”

Skjor looked down at her with a sort of secretive amusement that Tahir didn’t understand. “You still need to prove yourself, whelp.”

Firien folded her arms and looked away.

“However, the second reason I was looking for you,” Skjor began, “is somewhat related to a hunt. You’re receiving it from me, but it’s Farkas who has some work for you. He would normally seek you out himself, but he’s currently trying to resolve some sort of quarrel between Arcadia and Belethor.” Skjor looked disgusted when he mentioned Belethor, the local trader. Tahir had only encountered him once, and didn’t like him very much. “So I have this for you.”

He pulled out a rolled up piece of parchment and handed it to Firien, who quickly unrolled it and read it through before handing it to Tahir, her expression fierce yet pleased. He read the parchment and looked up at Skjor.

“Our first real job?” he asked gleefully.

“Yes,” said Skjor, “and it’s a pretty important one. One of the guards from Dragonsreach came to us, worried about a prisoner who’s escaped. The Jarl has too much on his mind right now, we won’t be troubling him with this.”

“So this is like our own hunt?” Tahir asked.

“You could call it that,” said Skjor easily.

“What are we to do when we find him?” Firien said curiously.

“Whatever you must,” said Skjor, but the hidden meaning behind his words was clear. “The damned fool probably could have gotten off on a light sentence if he had just stayed put. But he made his decision and so have the guards.”

Tahir turned toward Firien, grinning widely still, but before he could say anything, she rolled her eyes.

“What are you standing around grinning like a wolf for?” she demanded, already turning away from him. “Let’s go!”

“Glad to see someone has a sense for urgency!” Skjor called after them as they disappeared inside. Firien rushed down to the living quarters, and Tahir was close behind her. They went to their respective beds and Tahir reached under his and pulled out his worn traveling pack. He unbuckled his belt, which his sheathed scimitars hung onto, and set both his pack and his scimitars on the mattress. He had a pitifully small amount of belongings; a tattered cloak; a small cutting knife; a fantastically ancient tome about Onsi, the warrior god that the Yokudan worshipped; a hearty amount of his father’s favorite smoking mixture; his smoking pipe; a bedroll; and a spare set of his traveling furs.

Tahir nodded to himself as he confirmed all his belongings were in his pack before he folded up the missive and placed it inside. When he picked his pack up, he saw he still had plenty of room for food. He grimaced when he realized something fairly important was missing.

“Do you have a spare waterskin?” he asked Firien.

Firien glanced at her own pack and shook her head. “No. I don’t even have one myself. It was taken from me by the Imperials, it seems.” She scowled at nothing. “We can see if a merchant is selling some on our way out of the city.”

Tahir nodded and shouldered his pack, and Firien quickly mimicked the motion. He set off toward the kitchen, in search of Tilma. After their first few days, Farkas had shown them two secret rooms that could only be accessed by pushing certain stones on the wall; one leading to a bathhouse and one leading to a kitchen. The privy, he explained, was outside in an outhouse off to the side of Jorrvaskr, close enough for convenience but far enough away that any stink caused wouldn’t affect training or sparring. He had also explained that it was cleaned out nightly by servants from Dragonsreach. Tahir thought that was a luxury compared to the countless many relief breaks he had taken while traveling.

Tahir pressed the correct stone to the kitchen, and ducked through the narrow opening and continued on through the stone passage until he emerged in a warm, yet dimly lit hall. It was fairly large, with a massive fireplace on the northern wall opposite from them, a roaring fire crackling merrily in its hearth and a large cauldron full of a bubbling stew resting over the fire. Between Tahir and the fireplace was a huge table made from thick panels of oak. Various bowls, plates, jugs, and baskets littered the table, random food within and without. Tahir saw potatoes, apples, carrots, onions, wedges of cheese, bread loaves, tomatoes, and even an impressively large slab of boar meat rested on the far end of the table, a bloodied knife set on the cutting board beneath it. Shelves lined the walls to the left and the right of the fireplace, and Tahir quickly noted sacks full of what he could only image was food, and large wheels of cheese upon the shelves. To the east and west walls, he saw cabinets, and he knew they were filled with cooking supplies and items meant for transporting food for travel. Farkas had made sure they were aware.

“Do you see Tilma?” Firien asked from behind him, her voice low.

“No,” said Tahir as he stepped into the kitchen. “She’s probably upstairs. Let’s just take what we need and go.”

He began grabbing wedges of cheese and loaves of bread as Firien approached the cabinet against the west wall and began rifling through it, removing cloths to wrap food in, as well as a pot for water. She had told Tahir that when she was traveling prior to her capture near the border, she practically lived off making stew from what she hunted and various plants and mushrooms (provided she knew they weren’t plants native to Valenwood, on account of the Green Pact, which she still partially honored—she had explained to Tahir that there were some things she didn’t care for, and some things she strictly abode by). Tahir had never been very proficient at botany (it was one of the subjects he struggled with during his studies in Hammerfell), so he had mostly lived off game meats and whatever he bought in the villages and towns he stopped in along the way.

“Damn,” she muttered, and Tahir turned to her, curious. She explained, “I was hoping that Tilma would have some waterskins but she doesn’t.”

“No one in Whiterun needs one, apparently,” replied Tahir as he shoved some apples and a few potatoes into his pack. “They’re too busy getting drunk off ale, mead, wine, and whatever else they can drink.”

Firien’s shoulder’s slumped and she set her own pack on the table and began to shove food in as well, taking extra care to wrap any cheese, bread, and dried meat. When they had finished, they left the kitchen and made their way back upstairs, deep in conversation about how they were going to catch this escaped criminal.

“It said his name is Jaseera Blackfin,” said Tahir once they were outside. “An Argonian male. Argonians travel faster through water, so we should probably stick to rivers and creeks.”

Firien nodded. “We should ask the guardsmen where he came from, or if he’s been sighted, and why he was arrested. That should give us some idea as to where he’s headed.”

There was a strangely excited air about her, and Tahir was tempted to ask her why, but he kept his mouth shut, rather than risking ruining her good mood.

When they arrived at the barracks, Tahir pushed the door open and the few guards that were inside looked surprised to see them.

“Can we help you?” One of them, a woman, removed her helmet, and smiled welcomingly at them.

“We’re here about Jaseera Blackfin,” Firien said. “The Companions sent us after him.”

“They sent us whelps?” Another female guard sounded skeptical and annoyed.

“Hush, Grunnhild,” said the first guard. “We’ll take all the help we can get. Especially if we don’t want the Jarl knowing about this. She turned back to Tahir and Firien. “I’m Ingrid, first commander.”

“I’m Tahir, and this is Firien. We wanted to know why the criminal was arrested, and if you knew where he was headed.”

“We arrested him because he had robbed the Khajiit caravan of all fishing supplies while the Khajiit slept,” Ingrid explained. “We caught him near the Western Watch tower. He had a letter on him from someone in Solitude named Jaree-Ra, another Argonian presumably.”

“Probably getting involved with something illegal,” spat Grunnhild.

“Ignore her. She’s just angry because he escaped under her watch,” said Ingrid before continuing. “I’m assuming he’s going to try to get to Solitude. Come.”

She lead them to a map of Skyrim spread out on a small table. She pointed to Rorikstead. “I think he’s headed to Rorikstead to restock, and from there, I’m not sure.”

Firien pointed to the mouth of a river near Morthal. “He’ll probably go here, to the River Hjaal, to get to water. From there, he’ll travel across the marshes to Solitude’s fjord, and he’ll meet up with his contact after that. At that point... I think it would be out of Whiterun’s hands.”

“How do you know he’ll take that route?” Ingrid asked.

“He wants to get away from Whiterun, where he’s a wanted criminal. He’ll avoid patrols and main roads but will still take the quickest and simplest route to Solitude, which is the one I just explained. He’s a criminal. They’re pretty easy to read.”

Ingrid only nodded, awestruck. Tahir looked at her. “Do you have a spare map?”

“Of course,” she said, and she hurried to a nearby shelf laden with books and scrolls. She plucked a particular scroll from the shelf and handed it to Tahir. “It’s pretty up to date. Don’t worry about returning it. We have plenty.”

“Thank you,” said Tahir graciously as he passed the map to Firien. “We’ll take our leave now.”

“Remember,” said Ingrid as they left. “Do whatever you need to.”

Once they were out in the open air again, Tahir turned to Firien. “You seem to know a lot about tracking people down.”

Firien shrugged, not quite meeting his gaze. “It’s common sense.”

“...You’re hiding something,” said Tahir.

“Am I?” she sneered, but before Tahir could respond, he heard someone call out to them. He turned to the sound and saw Farkas hurrying toward them, dodging the bustling crowds as he went. When he finally reached them, he grinned widely.

“Off on your first job, eh?” he asked. “Excited?”

“Definitely,” said Tahir, glancing at Firien, who was suddenly very interested in the map she held.

“I won’t keep you,” said Farkas, also glancing at Firien. “I just wanted to wish you luck before you head out. Tracking criminals can be difficult and dangerous. Usually those are reserved for those we see as the best of the best.”

“So why did you pick us, then?” Firien demanded suddenly. “We’re just whelps. Certainly not the best of the best.”

Farkas looked surprised. “I didn’t. I was told to pass this job along to you but I had to hand it off to Skjor because of that dispute I had to break up.”

“If it wasn’t you, then who?” asked Tahir.

Farkas shrugged, his expression passive. “Vilkas.”

—

“I don’t understand what he’s playing at!” Tahir said furiously, kicking a rock into the fire. A shower of sparks exploded into the air and Firien gave him a dark look.

“Can you not try to put out the fire I so lovingly brought to life? Thanks,” she said, annoyed.

Night was falling, and they were deep into the wilderness surrounding Whiterun, a few leagues east of Rorikstead at the base of a small, lonely mountain in the heart of the plains. Firien had found a strange mound on the northwestern side of the mountain. It was lined by two rings of stone blocks. The strangest thing about it all was the massive circle of five standing stones in total that encircled the mound. Firien had stared at them for a long time, but Tahir broke her trance when he loudly announced that they had forgotten to buy water skins in town, to which she had sighed and told him she would make some in the morning, then she started to build the fire which she now gazed into.

“Well excuse me for being frustrated,” said Tahir, equally annoyed. “It’s like he set us up for failure.”

“Thanks for your faith in my abilities,” said Firien coldly.

“What abilities?” Tahir demanded angrily. “You won’t tell me anything!”

Firien was silent for a long time, still staring at the flames before her. Finally, she said, “Let’s just say I have more than my fair share of experience tracking people down.”

“Oooh, were you a bounty hunter?” Tahir asked, his anger fading to curiosity.

“Something like that,” said Firien absently. Her eyes were on the standing stones again. Before Tahir could ask what she meant, she stood and walked over to the closest standing stone and put her hand on it. She stood there for quite some time, her eyes closed, and Tahir shifted uneasily. Time trickled on, but she didn’t move. Tahir wondered if she was even breathing.

“Err... what are you doing?” he asked, after about ten minutes.

Firien’s eyes snapped open and she looked at him. “Huh?”

“What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“You just stood there with your eyes closed for about ten minutes,” Tahir said, confused.

“Did I?” Firien jerked her hand away from the stone, as if burned, and she glared at it suspiciously. “It only felt like a couple seconds.”

“No,” said Tahir, approaching her. “What do you think they are?”

“I don’t know,” said Firien slowly, inching away from the standing stone and back toward the fire. “The markings on it look familiar somehow, but I know I’ve never seen them before. It felt like it was... calling to me.”

“Calling to you?” Tahir echoed.

“That’s what I just said, isn’t it?” Firien snapped irritably. Then she shook her head. “I don’t know what it was, Tahir.”

She marched back over to the fire and sat back down on her bedroll. “We should probably get some rest. We have to make it to Rorikstead by midday if we want to pick up his trail.”

“You’re sure he went to Rorikstead?” asked Tahir, sitting on his own bedroll.

“Obviously,” she said. “He couldn’t have gotten weapons or supplies in Whiterun since he’s an escaped criminal and Rorikstead is the only settlement between here and Morthal.”

Tahir merely nodded. He had never really hunted anything before, save for the odd hunts he had gone on with his father and brother, but he had mostly tagged along while his father did all the work.

“So what happens when we get there?” he asked.

Firien looked at him, an almost savage look in her eyes. “Once we get there, the real hunt begins.”

—

Rorikstead was quiet. It was just after mid morning when they arrived, and tendrils of smoke coming from multiple chimneys were drifting upward toward the watery sun. A couple farmers were working in a barley field outside one of the small farms, sweat beaded on their foreheads and the backs of their necks, despite the chill in the air. They stopped their work to watch Tahir and Firien enter the village.

“Ho, there!” one of them, a built Nord man called, raising his arm and greeting. “What brings you to Rorikstead, travelers?”

Firien dipped her head slightly. “We’re looking for someone. We’re members of the Companions, in Whiterun, and we’ve been sent to collect an escaped criminal.”

The man frowned, his brow furrowed, and he leaned on the fence that separated them. “And who might that be?”

“An Argonian,” Firien replied. “Goes by Jaseera.”

“Don’t know any Jaseera,” replied the Nord. “There was an Argonian fellow who left town yesterday. Said his name was Blackfin, though.”

“That’s him,” said Tahir, and beside him, Firien rolled her eyes.

“He’s stupid enough to give out his name, so he won’t be that hard to find,” she said, sounding slightly disappointed. She removed her pack from her shoulders and dug through it, and pulled out her coin purse. She counted out ten Septims and offered them to the Nord. “For your troubles.”

The Nord looked at the coins in awe, but shook his head. “I can’t accept that, lass. That’s your hard-earned coin.”

“If you don’t take it, I’ll drop it on the ground and leave it for whomever to find,” she said simply. The Nord reluctantly extended his hand and accepted the coins. Firien turned to leave, but then paused. “Which way did he go? And has anyone else gone that way since?”

The Nord shook his head as he pocketed the money. “He went away toward the north. Seemed eager to avoid the roads. Left between those two buildings there.”

He pointed toward a small inn and a house that looked to be the same size to the left of it. Firien shouldered her pack once more, and Tahir thanked the man and together, they headed toward the short alley between the inn and the large house. Firien scanned the ground and Tahir hung back, watching her as she did so.

“What are you doing now?”

“Looking for footprints,” she said as she moved closer to the back of the inn. After a moment of silent examining, she knelt and touched the ground. “Here’s the beginning of our trail. Let’s go.”

She took off running, leaving Tahir staring after her in bewilderment. After a few seconds, he shook his head and ran after her, his feet pounding softly across the damp earth, Rorikstead growing smaller and smaller behind him.

—

It was surprisingly difficult to keep up with Firien. She was fast and agile, and often times she would have to stop and wait for him to catch up, occupying her time by scanning the ground for prints and signs of a passing traveler. Once, she had waited for him by a small camp that couldn’t have been more than a day old, and to her delight, there were tracks that obviously belonged to an Argonian littering the camp.

“This is him,” she had said. “It has to be.”

That night, they camped at the mouth of the River Hjaal, where Firien had found more tracks in the mud of the riverbank. Tahir was relieved when he saw that the tracks continued along the river, rather than disappearing into the water. That meant he was traveling on foot.

Tahir crouched by the mouth of the river and scooped water into his mouth. He was too parched to care about boiling the water first. Plus, many people drank from Skyrim’s rivers and streams and never had a problem. It was places like Orisinium, Valenwood, and Elsweyr that one would have to worry about drinking the water before boiling it.

He was alone in the camp. Firien had gone to hunt. He didn’t understand why, as they had food from Jorrvaskr’s kitchen. He set about making a stew, the loud river drowning out any noises he was making in the process.

Finally, as the meat in the stew was finally tenderizing, Firien returned, a small mountain goat slung over her narrow shoulders. She threw it on the ground before her and pulled a knife from her pack. Before Tahir had a chance to ask what she was going, she plunged the dagger into the goat’s belly and wrenched it to the side, causing blood and intestines to spill out onto the ground.

“Any reason why you’re doing that?” he asked in disgust as she shoved her hand into the gaping wound.

“Looking for its stomachs,” she mumbled as she began pulling various excrements from the goat and throwing them onto a smooth rock beside her.

“Why?”

“Waterskins,” she replied simply.

“How many stomachs to goats even have?” Tahir questioned.

“One,” said Firien. “But it’s split into multiple compartments. We only need two of those compartments.”

Tahir watched her work in silence for a while before asking, “How do you know how to do this?”

Firien sighed heavily and looked at him. “Do you always ask so many questions?”

“I want to get to know you,” said Tahir defensively. “Is that so bad?”

“Yes, it is,” said Firien coldly. Then, after a long time, she said, “I spent a lot of my time on the road. I had to learn how to survive. I had to make my own waterskins quite a few times.”

“How long has it been since you left Valenwood?”

“A long time.”

Tahir assumed that was the best answer he was going to get, and he returned his attention to their stew. He stirred it a few times, and when he looked up again, Firien had a large, reddish purple lump in her hand, and she was cutting it open. A second one sat atop the goat’s eerily still side.

“Food is ready,” he said, retrieving the two bowls and two spoons from his pack.

Firien looked down at her blood soaked hands, and back at him. She hesitated. “I’ll eat in a bit. I need to get these cleaned and tanned, otherwise they won’t be done by the time we need to leave.”

“Very well,” said Tahir, frowning. He set her bowl and spoon by the fire and proceeded to pour some of the pot’s contents into his own bowl. With a lonely sigh, he began to eat staring out over what he could see of the dark river.

Working with Firien on an actual job was proving to be less fun than he had hoped it would be. He knew she had her reasons for remaining secretive, but he had hoped that she would trust him more by now. Maybe he could get her to trust him by telling her more about himself.

“I have a brother,” he said. Firien paused for a moment, but didn’t say anything, and instead continued cleaning the stomachs. “His name is Munir. He’s ten years younger than me, but he’s far better at Sword-Singing than I am. He’s a lot like you, though. Keeps to himself mostly, but not as angry.” He chuckled. “Nowhere near as angry. I suppose he gets it from my mother. She’s very polite and soft-spoken, but she’s dangerous when she wants to be. My father is a hard man, yet believe it or not, he was always more lenient with us than my mother ever was, aside from when it came to our training and education. It’s kind of amusing how he and my mother fell in love, despite their differences. But I suppose that’s just how it works sometimes.”

“Why are you telling me this, Tahir?” Firien sounded exasperated.

Tahir was somewhat stung. “Because I want you to know.”

“Why? So I can tell you something about myself in exchange?” she snapped. “Hand me the salt.”

Tahir bit back an angry retort and reluctantly did as he was told, and he resumed eating as he watched Firien silently while she rubbed the now-clean stomachs down with salt. He knew he couldn’t force her to open up, but he didn’t want to feel like their friendship was one-sided. Firien was great company, until it came to talking about herself. Then she got snappy and rude, and hot anger pooled in her eyes as if he had just insulted her or attacked her. He had tried prying into her past during their time at Jorrvaskr, and every time had been the same. Tahir exhaled quietly, but Firien’s sensitive hearing picked it up, and she sighed. There was a long stretch of silence after her sigh, but finally, she spoke again.

“I lived in Orisinium for about a year before I came to Skyrim,” she said quietly. Tahir looked up at her, but she didn’t return his gaze. “I was made Blood-Kin to the Orcs, because I brawled with a chieftain’s wife and won. The chieftain wanted to brawl me, but I turned her down because I didn’t want to bring dishonor on her and danger to myself. A Bosmer would not make a suitable chieftain.”

“You brawled with an Orc?” Tahir asked in surprise. “And won?”

“Don’t act so shocked,” Firien said wryly. “I may be small but I’m quick and I’m strong. Plus... Orismer ale is potent.”

“Can you speak the language?”

“I’m not fluent, but yes.”

“Say something!” said Tahir eagerly.

Firien rolled her eyes, but obliged. She opened her mouth and a strange, gutteral rasping growl left her lips. Then she fell quiet and looked at Tahir expectantly.

“What did you say?” Tahir asked, placing his empty bowl by the fire.

“I called you a sand-fucker,” said Firien simply. Tahir glared at her. “I’m no expert, but I’m certain that’s how Orcs express affection. They always called me knife-ears, or a tree fairy. I cannot tell you how many times I heard mothers calling their own children pigs or bear-pigs. They had insults for every race in Tamriel, but they had the most for themselves. One time I accidentally called the chieftain a bull-fucker and I thought she was going to kill me right then and there but instead she laughed and bought me a drink. Orcs are a strange race.”

“I’ve never heard you actually insult anyone before,” said Tahir.

“It was custom there,” explained Firien, then she stood, and Tahir understood that their conversation was now over. “Sleep now. I’ll take the first watch. I’ll wake you in a while.”

—

“We’re getting close,” said Firien quietly. “I can feel it.”

Tahir looked down at her where she crouched, examining a footprint in the muddy earth of the marsh. Nearby, a bush had been obviously trampled by someone in a hurry. They had not rested the night before, but instead continued on so they could catch up with Jaseera Blackfin before he reached Solitude. Firien had proudly presented the finished waterskins when she had woken Tahir for his watch in the darkest hours of the morning prior, and she slept for about four hours before she woke and they pressed on, traveling along the River Hjaal toward Morthal and eventually, Solitude.

In Morthal, there had been reports of Jaseera, as well as rumors of dragon sightings to the far north, near the Sea of Ghosts. The villagers sounded skeptical, but Tahir believed the rumors, especially after what he had lived through at Helgen.

Their visit to Morthal had been brief, and they left the village just as the sun began to set, heading northwest into the misty marshes that smelled horribly. In the dark, Firien had some trouble tracking Jaseera, but as soon as the first light of dawn hit, she was able to pick up on his trail once more, and she had told Tahir that his footprints were fresh, no more than a couple hours old, which led her to the announcement she just made.

“We must be quiet now,” she whispered. She pointed north. “His tracks go that way. He probably stopped to camp. He’s a right fool.”

Tahir nodded, and Firien pressed a finger to her lips before she set off after Jaseera, her eyes glued to the ground. Tahir noticed that she left no prints in the mud herself, and he wondered at the light-footedness of the Elves. Was it all Elves or just Bosmer?

After a couple hours of Firien winding this way and that through shallow water and blackened and ominous dead trees, she stopped suddenly, frozen like a cat that’s spotted its prey. Tahir opened his mouth to inquire but she silenced him with a look, then pointed. He squinted, looking in that direction, and just barely he could make out the faint tendrils of smoke drifting lazily upward in the dim light of early morning. 

That had to be Jaseera.

Firien crept forward, silent and predatory, in the direction of the camp. Sure enough, as they got closer, Tahir could see a black lump forming on the ground, taking shape of someone sleeping on top of a bedroll, a long black reptilian tail sticking out from the blanket that covered the sleeping creature. He started to draw his scimitars, but Firien stopped him by holding up her hand. Tahir wanted to growl in frustration, but he couldn’t do anything to risk waking up their target. 

Suddenly, there was an explosion of movement as Jaseera bolted upright, his nostrils flaring as his sniffed the air loudly. He threw the blanket from his body and stood, looking around wildly. Firien froze, her hand on her axe handle. Tahir gripped the hilts of his scimitars tightly as Jaseera began to speak, his voice deep and raspy.

“I know you’re out there,” he said. “I can smell you, Elf. Same with you, Redguard. Now come on out and we’ll make this easy for both of you. You give me all your money and weapons, and any goodies you have on you, and I let you live, and we both go on our merry way.”

Neither of them responded, half hidden in darkness as Jaseera stepped away from his bedroll, wandering dangerously close to the direction they were in. From where he stood, if he took a few more steps and turned his head slightly to the right, he would see them. Tahir, thinking quickly, picked up a rock and threw it away from them. It plunged into water, to Jaseera’s left. His sleek horned head swiveled in that direction and Tahir could picture his lizard-like pupils dilating in interest.

“Trying to throw me off, huh?” he asked, and Tahir turned to Firien, only to see that she was gone, but her black cloak remained where she had been just moments before. He sat utterly still, pressing himself as hard as he could against the trunk of a thick tree. Mist and shadows shrouded him, but he knew if Jaseera looked this way, he would be spotted immediately. He gritted his teeth, but suddenly Firien’s plan dawned on him. He smiled widely, grabbed the cloak, and flung himself away from the tree. If he was going to be seen, it would be on their terms, not Jaseera’s.

“Ah,” said Jaseera as he turned toward Tahir. “There you are. Where’s your friend, the Elf?”

“There is no Elf here,” said Tahir. “Just you and I.”

“Liar,” Jaseera sneered. “I can smell it.”

“You must be smelling this,” said Tahir, holding up the cloak. “I took it off a Bosmer woman back in Morthal. You can smell it to confirm if you want.”

He placed the cloak on the ground and stepped back, his hands in the air. Jaseera looked from him to the cloak, as if considering approaching it. After a few long moments of silence, he made up his mind and crept toward the black puddle of fabric. Just as he bent down to pick it up, Firien suddenly appeared behind him, drawing her axe. Jaseera froze upon hearing the sound of her axe leaving its holster but it was too late. By the time he tried to look behind him, Firien was bringing the axe down and buried it in his skull. With a strange sort of scream, Jaseera collapsed, dead, and Firien wrenched her axe out of his skull with a small grunt. She looked at the axe with pride, and Tahir realized it was her first kill with her new weapon.

“You should name it accordingly,” he said, nodding toward it.

Firien thought for a moment. “Shriek.”

“Shriek?” Tahir echoed.

“He shrieked when he died,” Firien explained. “A fitting name, I think.”

Tahir considered this. “I like it.”

Firien approached the dead Argonian.

“Fucking fool,” she said, shaking her head as she kicked him over. “He fell for that so predictably. I knew he was stupid, but I didn’t expect him to be that stupid. This was actually incredibly disappointing. Farkas said they reserved these jobs for the best of the best, but for this?”

She knelt beside him and used his trousers to wipe the blade of her axe clean, before she began digging through his pockets.

“You’re looting him?” Tahir asked.

“It’s not like he has any use for it,” said Firien as she pocketed a couple septims. “Here.”

She stood and handed Tahir a few coins.

“We should probably see if there’s anything he stole from the Khajiit so we can return it to them,” said Tahir, and Firien nodded in agreement. “What should we do about him?”

He jerked his head toward Jaseera.

“I’m sure all the mudcrabs, chaurus, and frostbite spiders in this marsh could use a good meal,” said Firien. “Which reminds me, we should probably hurry this up and get out of here before they smell his blood.”

Tahir silently agreed and began searching through Jaseera’s belongings, but it didn’t take him too long to find a large sack full of fishing supplies, jewelry, and fine clothing.

“The Khajiit must not have been the only ones he robbed,” said Tahir as he showed Firien the sack.

“Clearly not,” said Firien. “Well, there’s no way for us to find whoever that belonged to, so we should probably just give it all to the Khajiit as compensation for their troubles.”

“Aye,” said Tahir. “It’s not like we need it anyway.”

The moment he finished speaking, he heard a strange rustling combined with loud clicks.

“Chaurus,” Firien cursed. “Come on, let’s go before they find our friend here. Then we’ll be in real trouble. Those things can spit poison from ten yards away.”

With that, she headed back into the marsh the way they came, and Tahir lifted the sack and followed close behind, secretly glad that this was over and they were able to go home.

—

Three days later, Tahir and Firien stopped by the Khajiit caravan outside of Whiterun, and offered them the entirety of the sack’s contents. The leader of the caravan, Ri’saad thanked them graciously and even offered them some trinkets in return, which they respectfully declined.

“Farkas should have our pay anyway,” said Tahir as they left the Khajiit caravan and continued up the sloping hill to the gates of the city. Just as they reached them, the gates swung open and a courier rushed out, stopping before them.

“My lord, my lady,” he panted, and Firien looked at Tahir in disgust at being referred to as a lady, “The guards were right in their report of your return—Jarl Balgruuf requested to see you immediately.”

“Did he?” Tahir asked. “Can it wait? We just got back from a job and—“

The courier was already shaking his head. “He says it’s urgent. He requires your audience now.”

Then the courier turned and trotted away, leaving Tahir and Firien staring after him.

“I guess we don’t have a choice,” said Firien, sounding annoyed. “I bet he wants us to run some stupid errand for him too.”

“I just want to sleep in an actual bed,” groaned Tahir as they passed through the gates. Firien said nothing in return, but Tahir knew it was because she was too busy seething. He squared his shoulders as they went not in the direction that would take them back to Jorrvaskr, but instead to the left in the direction that would lead them to Dragonsreach.

Whatever reasons Jarl Balgruuf the Greater had for calling them the moment they returned to Whiterun had better be good, or Tahir himself would rip the Jarl’s tongue right out of his mouth.

That is, of course, if Firien didn’t beat him to it.


	3. Dawn- Jeremy Soule

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY we’re getting to the main quest line
> 
> Also I’m way too lazy to come up with original song lyrics so chances are any songs sung by any characters are songs from other things.

“So let me get this straight,” Firien said, her voice cold. “You want us to go on a little treasure hunt for your court wizard to find some dumb tablet that you don’t even know exists?”

Jarl Balgruuf leaned forward, looking at her in mild interest. Beside him, his housecarl, Irileth, glared at Firien in outrage.

“When speaking to the Jarl, you will refer to him as ‘my lord,’” she said angrily. “Such disrespect will not be—“

Balgruuf raised a hand to silence her, and her expression changed to one of shock as she closed her mouth and merely glowered.

“You aren’t very smart, are you, elf?” he asked.

“On the contrary,” snapped Firien, “my intelligence is rather high, especially when it comes to being perspicacious.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tahir flinch, but she ignored it and kept her gaze on the jarl.

“Perspicacious?” Balgruuf echoed. “About what?”

“You want us to run an errand for you because you think we’re expendable. Instead of sending someone from your own inner circle, many of whom you know are more than capable, you’d rather send someone whose death wouldn’t linger on your conscience, should something go wrong. You would sleep soundly either way, should we succeed or not.”

Beside her, Tahir groaned quietly, but she continued to ignore him. Balgruuf wasn’t a king. He could try to have her executed, sure, but she would slip away before he even rose from his throne. As far as she was concerned, he didn’t deserve the respect of being called “my lord” or any other honorific until he earned it.

Balgruuf was silent for a long time. Irileth stared at Firien with a savage smirk, clearly confident that Firien had just talked her way into her own death. On Balgruuf’s other side, his steward, Proventus, glanced between them nervously, sweat beading his already shiny forehead. The roaring fire pit caused the room to swelter, but Firien stood frozen, refusing to back down or give Balgruuf the satisfaction of knowing she was uncomfortable. Tahir was also still and silent, but Firien could just barely see that his left hand was resting on the hilts of his sheathed scimitars, ready to draw them if need be.

After some time, Balgruuf rose and descended the steps before his throne, and stopped when he stood right before Firien, who glared up at him defiantly.

“What makes you believe you’re in a position to defy my orders?” he asked, his voice low.

“I’m not a pawn, Balgruuf,” Firien said, her voice just as low, but with a touch of danger to it. “If you want me to run your little errand, you had better give me a damned good reason to do so.”

“I won’t have you killed if you do.”

“The last people who tried to have me killed wound up burnt to a crisp by a dragon. Would you like to meet the same fate?” It was bold talk, she knew, a hollow threat even, but she was not going to let Balgruuf walk all over her. The dragon appearing mere moments before she was supposed to be beheaded and killing the Imperials at Helgen was pure coincidence, and completely out of her control, but Balgruuf didn’t know that. 

And it worked. She saw fear flash in his eyes and he abruptly turned away from her with a grunt of anger. He stalked back into his throne and threw himself down.

“Very well,” he snapped. “This dragon appearing is no small matter and must be handled accordingly. The Dragonstone will help us, if you can find it. You go and retrieve the Dragonstone and I award you a thousand septims.”

“Each,” said Firien firmly.

Balgruuf made a face as if he had just tasted something unpleasant. Then he sighed, resigned. “Each. You strike a hard bargain, elf.”

“I don’t work for free,” said Firien coldly. “And I don’t expect my friend here to, either. You want us to risk our lives for you, you’re going to pay us some damn good coin in return. Give us a week to rest and recover from the job we just returned from, and then we’ll go to Bleak Falls Barrow, get your damned Dragonstone, you’ll pay us, and that will be the end of it.”

Without waiting for an answer, Firien turned on her heel and marched out of the hall, Tahir following close behind. Once they were outside in the beginning of a dusky twilight, Tahir exhaled loudly. “I’m surprised you didn’t get us killed back there.”

“They wouldn’t have done anything,” said Firien as they hurried down the stone staircase toward the Winds district, where Jorrvaskr was. “Whelps or not, we’re still Companions, and Balgruuf can’t risk losing their protection of the city. Sure, he has guards, but the Companions are different.”

“That doesn’t mean you should threaten his relationship with us, girl.”

Firien and Tahir turned in unison and saw Kodlak sitting on a bench beneath the Gildergreen, his expression weary.

“Kodlak,” Firien said in surprise. “You’re... outside.”

It was the first time she had seen him anywhere beyond his study. The rot had taken a toll on him, according to Farkas, and he rarely left his study, let alone Jorrvaskr.

“Astute observation,” he said wryly. “Tell me, what is this chatter about Balgruuf risking our protection?”

Shame flooded through her, and she didn’t know why. She hadn’t felt an ounce of anything beyond anger and resentment when she had been inside Dragonsreach, but now that Kodlak was asking her what had happened, she suddenly felt ashamed. 

“She mouthed off to the jarl because he wanted us to risk our lives for him,” Tahir supplied helpfully. “She pretty much told him to shove it, until he offered to pay.”

Kodlak blinked in surprise, then he looked at Firien sternly. “Is this true?”

Firien turned her gaze downward as she nodded slightly, her fists clenched at her sides. Then—

Kodlak began laughing loudly. Firien’s head snapped up in shock at the sound, and she saw that Kodlak’s head was thrown back and he had a hand over his belly, as if someone had just told him the funniest joke in the world. After a few moments, he settled down and wiped a tear from his eye.

“I’ve been around a long time, girl,” said Kodlak, pointing at her, amusement still twinkling in his eyes. “Longer than Balgruuf has been the jarl of this city, that’s for sure. In all my years, I’ve never heard of anyone telling the jarl to, in Tahir’s words, shove it. Most of the time they just accept his demands wordlessly and do as they’re told. But not you. Oh no, not you. You’ve got the same fire in your soul that you’ve got in your eyes, and I can’t wait to see where it will take you.”

With one last chuckle, he forced himself to his feet. He gestured at them.

“Help me back to Jorrvaskr, will you? Farkas was supposed to return at sundown, but he probably got distracted by all the pretty maidens down at the Mare again.”

Irritation flared in Firien’s stomach, annoyed that Farkas would rather chase tail than be there for his Harbinger when he said he would. She went to Kodlak’s side, and he put a heavy hand on her shoulder to steady himself as they began the slow trek up to Jorrvaskr.

“I heard Ulfric Stormcloak was on that carriage to Helgen with you, is this true?” Kodlak asked as they slowly ascended the steps.

“Yes,” replied Firien. “He was there. The Imperials blamed him for the war.”

“Aye,” said Kodlak heavily. “We wouldn’t be in this mess if he had just stayed put in his fancy palace in Windhelm. I have no love for the Thalmor or the Legion, but the last thing Skyrim needs is to be torn apart by another war. I lost many friends in the last one, and I know I am not the only one who suffered such loss.”

Firien said nothing, but she suddenly felt nauseous at his words. A flood of memories came back to her; a flash of wavy blonde hair, a small hand in her grip as she stumbled through thick trees and underbrush, running from people who wanted to hurt them, then—

“Firien, are you alright?” Tahir’s voice cut through her train of thought and Firien was pulled back to the present.

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice somewhat hoarse.

“Are you sure? You’re really pale...”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Firien forced out with a tone of finality as they entered the busy mead hall of Jorrvaskr. Nearly all of the Companions were sitting at the long table, drinking from their tankards and laughing loudly over plates full of food. Farkas was missing, but Kodlak had already told them he was down at the inn.

“Kodlak,” said Firien. Kodlak looked at her curiously. “Balgruuf wants us to retrieve something for him, at Bleak Falls Barrow near Riverwood. We’re supposed to leave in five days.”

Kodlak considered her words for a moment. “It is not my place to tell you what you can and can’t do. But it is my place to warn you of certain dangers. Be sure to not get too mixed up in the Jarl’s business. As Companions, we’re under oath to not mingle in political affairs. Heed my words and tread lightly.”

“Of course, Harbinger,” said Tahir. “Back in Hammerfell, I dealt with enough politics to last me a lifetime. You can count on me to not get involved. Politics are a nasty business.”

“I’m not a politician,” Firien added. “I have no desire to run any errands for the Jarl after this. The only reason I agreed was because he promised us quite a bit of gold in return... after some persuasion. He only chose us because we were in Helgen and I guess this artifact he wants us to retrieve may have some sort of connection to the appearance of that dragon.”

“Very well.” Satisfied with their answers, Kodlak detached himself from their arms. “I must return to my study. I’m weary. If you see Farkas, give him a good cuff to the head for me, will you?”

“Of course!” said Tahir enthusiastically. Firien smirked with amusement. Kodlak grinned at them before departing, leaving them standing before the doors in silence. It didn’t take Skjor long to fill his place, asking them how their mission went and if the job was taken care of. Upon hearing that Jaseera was dead and the Khajiit caravan had been compensated for their troubles, he handed them two hefty coin purses, one for each of them.

“Wow, how much is in here?” Tahir asked, weighing the bag in his hand.

“Two hundred septims each,” said Skjor. “They really didn’t want to handle that Argonian.”

“I don’t know why,” Firien muttered as they left Skjor. “It’s not like it was very challenging.”

Tahir shrugged as he sat at the table, and Firien quickly joined him, finding herself suddenly ravenous. She loaded her plate up with food, and before she could even take a bite, one of the other whelps, Njada Stonearm, took the seat on Firien’s other side.

“So how was your first job?” she asked, somewhat snidely.

“Easy,” Firien said shortly. 

“That’s too bad,” said Njada. “At least the pay was decent, I guess.”

Firien merely shrugged, and returned her attention to her food, blatantly ignoring Njada. Eventually, Njada gave up and went to go talk to Athis, another whelp. Firien had heard that the two often butted heads, but had only witnessed it on one occasion, when she had walked in from the training yard to see them brawling and the rest of the Companions gleefully cheering them on. 

Njada’s place was soon taken by Farkas, who was red-cheeked and grinning. He opened his mouth to speak, but Firien immediately whacked him in the head before he had a chance, much to his shock.

“What in Shor’s name was that for?” he asked, almost angrily as he rubbed the spot she had struck. Behind her, Tahir loudly exclaimed, “Aww, I wanted to do it.”

“Abandoning Kodlak to go chase tail at the inn,” she replied, ignoring Tahir. “That was from him, not me. I don’t care what you do.”

Farkas watched her for a long moment before saying, somewhat hopefully, “Well... you can always come with me?”

“And watch you flirt with every pea-brained maiden that twirls her hair at you?” Firien sneered, standing. “I think not.”

She left him at the table, and could feel both his bewildered gaze and Tahir’s curious one burning into her back. Once she had descended the stairs and shut the door behind her, she exhaled, wondering why she was suddenly irritated again. She rubbed her temples as she trudged to her bed in the whelps’ quarters.

For some reason, even though he hadn’t really done anything, she decided to direct her irritation at Farkas. She assumed it was because he had left Kodlak alone when he was supposed to be assisting him, but even that didn’t settle right with her. She groaned in frustration and climbed into her bed, aggressively pulling the blanket over her head.

Thinking was too much for her right now, and she surrendered her thoughts in exchange for a fitful, restless sleep.

—

The next five days were spent in leisure, during which time they mostly hung around Jorrvaskr, where Firien spent most of her time sparring, and Tahir spent most of his free time up at the Sky Forge with Eorlund. Yet before Firien knew it, they were leaving Whiterun once more, this time in the back of a carriage that would take them to Riverwood. It was a fine day, but dark clouds, pregnant with a very angry storm, loomed over the mountains to the north, and the strong northern winds were quickly blowing it in their direction. 

“Should only be about a half day’s ride,” the carriage driver called back to them, and launched into song without waiting for a response. Firien tried to distract herself by admiring the scenery around them, but the carriage driver’s loud voice wormed its way into her thoughts.

_“Far over the misty mountains cold...”_

His voice wasn’t unpleasant by any means, but Firien would rather experience the ride in peace and quiet. Tahir, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying it immensely and would sometimes sing along or serenade the driver with a song he learned in Hammerfell. Tahir’s voice wasn’t the greatest, but it was at least bearable. 

“Can you sing, elf?” the carriage driver called back to her as they passed by Honningbrew Meadery, about a half hour outside of Whiterun.

Firien said nothing, and the carriage driver shifted uncomfortably in her stony silence.

“Don’t mind her,” said Tahir cheerfully. “She’s always this moody.”

Firien bared her teeth briefly at Tahir before turning away from them to admire the White River. If they were lucky, they would be back in Whiterun by sundown two days from now. She didn’t know how deep Bleak Falls Barrow ran into the mountains, and while she would rather not find out, she left herself with no choice.

The pay will be worth it. That was the mantra she repeated over and over in her head, while Tahir laughed loudly at a story the carriage driver was telling. Firien pressed her fingertips into her thighs, her mind on the job ahead.

Finally, when the sun was high in the sky, they arrived in Riverwood, where the massive pine trees were singing with the harsh winds. At Tahir’s command, carriage driver stopped before crossing the bridge into the small village, for the road they had to take was to their right, twisting up the side of the mountain and disappearing into a nest of sheer, grey boulders with pointed peaks, reminding Firien of a snake hurrying to hide within the rocks. She turned back toward the way they came with a frown, and saw that the thick thunderheads were now over Whiterun’s plains, the city itself rising out of the earth and disappearing beneath the shadow of the clouds. Lightning flashed within them, and Firien looked back toward the carriage.

“We shouldn’t waste any time,” she said to Tahir as he thanked the carriage driver. “We need to move before that storm hits.”

Setting off on foot, she began making her way up the mountain path, Tahir calling after her as she went. Soon enough, he caught up to her.

“You know, Bjorlam was rather nice. You didn’t need to be so cold toward him.”

Firien stopped and looked at Tahir with raised eyebrows. “Who?”

“Bjorlam. The carriage driver?”

“How do you know his name?”

“Uh, I asked him,” said Tahir with a roll of his eyes. He set off once more, this time leaving Firien staring after him in bewilderment. She shook her head and followed after him, exasperation clear on her face.

They continued on in silence, breaking only once so Tahir could relieve himself. Firien stared at the clouds angrily, as they had long since drifted across the sun, blocking it out and darkening the world. 

“We shouldn’t have stopped,” she said to Tahir as he emerged from the trees, still lacing up his trousers.

“I had to piss, Firien, what did you want me to do? Go in my pants?”

“Sure, if it means we move faster.”

“You’re unbelievable—“

His sentence was cut short by a loud crash of thunder, and the rain began to fall. Soaked within seconds, Firien looked at the sky for a moment before looking back at Tahir with a glare. She pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and sighed dramatically.

“See what I meant?” she demanded before turning on her heal. “Let’s go. We have to make it by nightfall or we’ll be stuck in this nonsense.”

—

“Why do bandits feel the need to overtake every barrow, ruin, and cairn in this damnable country?” Tahir hissed to her. “Why can’t they just enjoy living crime-free lives in some nice village somewhere like normal people?”

Firien didn’t respond, but continued to watch the bandits from their hiding place. Bleak Falls Barrow was larger than she had expected, even though the old stone arches were visible from Whiterun. They were currently crouched behind a decent-sized pile of rubble, atop the plateau that ran the length of the mountaintop. The barrow had a massive entrance set into the side of the mountain, and it’s large, stone doors were set within an alcove supported by dark, moss-covered pillars. Huddled around a fire within the alcove were two bandits, clearly supposed to be keeping watch. Thunder tumbled overhead and the wind tore at Firien’s wet clothing, causing her to shiver. She had a spare tunic and trousers in her pack, and hoped that the the rough canvas material had been enough to prevent them from soaking through.

“We could easily take them,” said Tahir, just loud enough for her to hear him over the wind, rain, and thunder.

“Most likely,” she replied. “And with this going on, we could probably do it quietly enough to arouse suspicion from within. But we don’t know how many are inside.”

“Well, let’s take care of these fools and maybe one of us can sneak in and scout out the rest.”

“Most bandit groups aren’t very large,” agreed Firien. “Larger groups pose a higher risk of loot being stolen. If anything, there’s probably only a few more inside.”

“Let’s focus on these two for now,” said Tahir. “I have an idea. Wait here.”

Before Firien could protest, he crept away, much like she had done when they had finally tracked down Jaseera. Firien peaked out over the rubble, and she saw that Tahir had crept to a point that would be invisible from the alcove. A large branch was in his hands. He flashed her a grin before bringing it down over his knee, breaking it in two with a loud snap.

The bandits suddenly ceased their conversation, looking around warily. Firien watched them carefully as the smaller of the two seemed to tell the larger to go investigate. Instead of listening, the large one began to argue, and she glanced at Tahir again, who was looking back at her with an expression of bewilderment. She shrugged and continued to watch the bandits, who had now drawn weapons, to her amazement.

“They might just take care of each other for us,” she muttered to herself as lightning flashed, illuminating the plateau. She ducked behind the rubble, hoping she hadn’t been spotted, despite the fact that the bandits had been pretty focused on each other. Then, she heard an ear-splitting shriek and risked a glance. Tahir was nowhere to be seen, but the smaller bandit was dead, a dagger shoved into his eye. As the larger bandit stood over him, her chest heaving, Firien saw Tahir sneaking up behind her, his scimitars drawn.

Without giving the bandit a chance to move, Tahir snuck up behind her and crossed his scimitars in front of her throat. He grinned widely and said a single word to her before wrenching his scimitars back, effectively destroying her throat and ending her life. As she slumped to the ground, Tahir straightened and waved in Firien’s direction. With a huff, Firien left her hiding place and trotted across the plateau, her feet hitting the ground with wet slaps as she went.

When she finally reached Tahir and the two dead bandits, she looked down at them with distaste.

“That was lucky.”

“Bandits will fight over anything,” said Tahir. “I just didn’t expect, well... that to happen.”

Firien only shook her head, grateful for the alcove’s protection from the rain.

“Okay, I’ll go in,” she said. “If I’m not back in five minutes, you’d better save my ass.”

Then she left him there, opening the surprisingly lightweight stone door on unusually silent hinges, and slipping inside the barrow. It was lit by many torches and a small camp set up in the far right corner. Two bandits sat there, talking rather loudly.

“So we’re just supposed to sit here while Arvel runs off with that golden claw?” the first one asked.

The second one paused for a moment before speaking. “If that dark elf wants to go on ahead, let him. Better than us risking our necks.”

The first bandit bristled with anger. “What if he doesn’t come back? I want my share of that damned claw.”

“Just shut it and keep an eye out for trouble,” the second one snapped, causing the first one to grumble angrily while glaring at the fire. Firien glanced around the gigantic cavern, ensuring there were no more bandits hiding in any other corners or perhaps lurking by one of the massive pillars that supported the roof.

Satisfied that these were the only two in here, she slipped back outside, where Tahir looked at her eagerly. “Well?”

“There’s only two,” said Firien. “They mentioned a third, and something about a golden claw, but I’m not really sure what that was about, or if it has anything to do with the Dragonstone tablet, but whenever we find their friend, we should grab it just in case.”

“Ooh, a souvenir,” said Tahir.

“Whatever it is, it’s most likely stolen.”

“So? I didn’t steal it. From its owner anyway.”

“You know what?” said Firien incredulously. “That’s a good point, and I’m not going to argue.”

“Thanks for endorsing my criminal side,” said Tahir with an appreciative smile. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

Without another word, Tahir lifted his leg and violently kicked the stone door. It swung open and banged against the wall it was set into, causing the bandits to yell out in surprise. But Firien and Tahir had already snuck in before they discovered the source of the noise.

“Why did the door open?” the first bandit asked nervously. 

“Quiet, Soling,” the second one hissed. “It was probably this damned storm. Go close it.”

Unlike the two bandits outside, Soling did as he was told. With a defeated sigh, he approached the door with slumped shoulders. Firien and Tahir were crouched behind a pillar less than three feet from it. The second bandit had returned his attention to the fire, his back to them, and the moment Soling was close enough, Tahir grabbed him from behind and clapped a hand over his mouth, silencing him before he could even make a sound. Firien pushed the door closed, in order to avoid arousing the other bandit’s suspicion.

“Bandits are always so careless,” Tahir muttered with slight annoyance as he cut Soling’s throat, which effectively sprayed Firien in the face and chest with his blood.

“Tahir!” she exploded angrily, forgetting where they were and what they were doing. “You fucking—“

“Who’s there?” the second bandit suddenly shouted, now on his feet, sword drawn.

“Gods damn it all,” Firien snapped in her fury. She drew her Shriek from its holster on her back and began marching toward the other bandit.

He laughed upon seeing her and pointed his ugly, rusted sword at her. “Well, look at you. Are you sure that weapon isn’t a little too big for—“

Firien didn’t let him finish his question. She swung her axe in a large arc and aimed for his neck, beheading him aggressively. His head dropped to the floor and rolled away, his body following just a moment later.

“You would think he was smart enough to not try and insult someone approaching him with a drawn weapon,” said Tahir, his tone almost sad. “But, again, bandits are always so careless.”

“You were careless!” Firien said. “Why’d you have to wait until I was within spraying distance, huh?”

“Well you didn’t have to yell at me about it,” said Tahir.

“How else would you react to being sprayed with blood from a cut throat?” she demanded.

“I dunno, I’d probably laugh,” said Tahir sincerely.

“You’re so lucky that I haven’t shoved the handle of my axe up your ass yet,” she hissed. “Clear up these bodies. I’m going to change and wash my face.”

After Tahir had dragged the corpses to a far corner, far away from the small camp the bandits had set up, they decided to make it their own. Firien dropped her pack by the camp and began searching for her spare clothes and a rag. After retrieving what she needed, she followed the sound of running water and found a small but steady stream of water coming from a leak in the ceiling that she used to soak her rag. She wrung it out a bit and began scrubbing her face with it. She didn’t want a stranger’s blood coating her skin for very much longer. It made her uneasy. 

“Did I get all of it?” she asked Tahir. He glanced at her and gestured to his throat, and Firien rolled her eyes and brought the rag to her neck. When she finished, Tahir nodded approvingly. Firien draped the rag over a rock to dry (she would wash it and her ruined clothes when she returned to Jorrvaskr) and set about changing. She stripped herself of her leather armor, and then her tunic, before she turned away from Tahir for a moment to grab the fresh one, which was miraculously dry.

“What is that?” Tahir asked suddenly.

“What is what?” Firien asked, looking at him over her shoulder.

“I saw a flash of white on your skin,” he said, cautiously approaching her. “In the firelight. On your shoulder blade, just below your breast band.”

Suddenly his fingers were inspecting her skin, and she felt him trace over the small, white outline of an Ink-Marking she had gotten years before.

“It’s nothing,” Firien said harshly.

“But what is it supposed to be? It looks like—“

“Scales,” Firien finished flatly. “Dragon scales. Done in white ink. And that’s all it is.”

“But why?” Tahir asked. “And why only two?”

Firien felt her shoulders slump and she pulled her clean tunic over her head, effectively forcing his curious hands away from her back.

“I don’t know, Tahir,” she said, facing him but not quite meeting his gaze. She busied herself by changing her trousers, as well. “I wanted an Ink-Marking, and for some reason this was the first thing that came to mind and it just stuck, okay? There’s no deep story behind it or thrilling tale. It is what it is. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go make sure their friend isn’t lurking about somewhere.”

Firien pulled on dry socks and her boots, then stalked away without giving him a chance to speak, and without giving herself a chance to dwell on the past.

When she eventually returned from the corridor with nothing to report aside from what she could only assume was an actually dead draugr lying in the middle of the passage, she allowed herself to become somewhat familiar with their surroundings. The cavern was dank and musty, and it smelled ancient, like old stone and rotting parchment. The sound of dripping water echoed throughout the cavern, and moss and vines crept up the pillars, partially obscuring carvings from another lifetime, when the barrow was used for more than bandit schemes and draugr keeping. 

The fire crackled loudly, almost drowning out the sound of the raging storm outside. Firien pulled some dried meat from her pack while Tahir cleaned the blood and gore from his scimitars and carefully resheathed them. Once he was settled on the other side of the fire, she tossed him some of the dried meat and drew her legs up to her chest, resting her chin in the groove between her knees, gazing at the fire while he ate.

She didn’t like this old barrow. She didn’t like the fact that it had been used as a hideout for bandits, or that somewhere, deep within the mountain it was built on, the draugr were awaiting them. Before she had gone in search of this “Arvel” the bandits had mentioned, she had only heard stories of them, and had no desire to meet one. The one she had found was dead, but it’s old, gnarled skin was enough to make her own crawl. It was common knowledge in Skyrim that draugr lurked within the depths of most of the barrows, crypts, and ruins. She had even read a book once, about a woman from the mages’ college in Winterhold who devoted a large portion of her life to studying the draugr, and the way that even in death, they continued to worship the long-dead dragon priests who evidently cast the spells upon them that would give them eternal unrest. The author even noted that she found evidence that the draugr were once normal men and women, much like herself and Tahir.

Firien shuddered involuntarily. She could not imagine her mummified corpse shambling around, worshipping and bringing offerings to the very being that cursed her with undeath.

The thought nauseated her. She needed a distraction.

“Tahir,” she mumbled, and he looked at her with raised eyebrows, clearly surprised that she was speaking to him in such a gentle manner compared to earlier. “Tell me your happy memories.”

Tahir appeared to be dumbfounded, but after a moment, he did as he was told. He told her stories of sundrenched towers in Hammerfell, and how he would often play with the street children, often offering them sweets and trinkets and shiny coins, much to their shock and awe that such a rich and finely dressed boy would give them such gifts when most people would hardly spare them a glance. He told her of a lightning storm he once witnessed, where the sky was a murky green like a healing bruise and the magnificent bolts of lightning lit up the world, illuminating the mountains that bordered the massive desert he once called home, the same mountains that separated Hammerfell from Skyrim. He told her stories of the comfort of his mother’s arms, and his father’s stern but proud glances in his direction, and how his brother, Munir, was so much more apt at conjuring spirit swords than he was, and while he was slightly envious, he swelled with pride as Munir excelled. He shared the story of the first time he ever saw snow, and how surprised he was when he felt the cold chill of snowflakes on his fingertips.

He went on for a while, telling her much of his life but still not even a fraction of all of things he had experienced, and finally, he fell silent, his expression content as if he was still living in those moments he had just shared with her. Then, his expression turned curious and somewhat skeptical, and he said one word.

“Why.”

It wasn’t a question. 

Firien hesitated. “I don’t like this place. It makes me uncomfortable, and think thoughts I would rather not linger on. You are always so full of life and energy, and I thought you might be able to offer some solace.”

Tahir considered her words for a long time. Then he said, “Tell me one of your happy memories.”

She said nothing.

“Just one,” said Tahir. “Something that you look back on and find joy in.”

Firien thought about it for a while, silent the entire time. Tahir watched her hopefully for a while, then he looked down at his feet with a defeated sigh. He picked up an unopened bottle of wine from the bandits and popped it open, taking a swig. Firien frowned. She wanted to share with him. The feeling surprised her, but she wasn’t going to fight it. She just didn’t know what to share with him that wouldn’t reopen any painful wounds that she had carelessly stitched closed with threads of bitter resentment and anger.

“My father,” she started, and Tahir’s head snapped up attentively. Her voice faltered but she tried again. “My father would sing to me when I was young. He had a very beautiful voice. I always wanted to hear him sing. He always had a default song, though sometimes he would recite others, but his default song was my favorite. I still hear it in my dreams sometimes.”

“Can you sing it for me?” Tahir asked, his voice encouraging.

Firien paused. “I’m no bard, Tahir. I don’t know when the last time I sung aloud was.”

“It’s alright if you don’t want to,” said Tahir. “I know this is probably a lot for you.”

Tahir’s level of patience and understanding was enough. Firien closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, and began in a low voice,

_“I saw the light fade from the sky,  
On the wind I heard a sigh.  
As the snowflakes cover my fallen brothers,  
I will say this last goodbye._

_Night is now falling,  
So ends this day.  
The road is now calling,  
And I must away  
Over hill and under tree  
Through lands where never light has shone  
By silver streams that run down to the sea.”_

Her cheeks were ablaze, and she fell silent as the last note echoed in the massive cavern. Tahir stared at her, and Firien averted her gaze, ashamed.

“You can sing.” Tahir sounded awestruck.

“Can I?” Firien asked, still embarrassed. She had never sung in front of anyone before, aside from her father when she was very small, so she had no idea if her voice was pleasing to the ear or not. When Bjorlam has asked, she didn’t answer because she honestly didn’t know and didn’t want to make a fool of herself in front of him. 

Yet... she could do so in front of Tahir.

“You can!” said Tahir enthusiastically. He took another swig of the wine and passed it to her. “Though the song was a bit heavy as far as the lyrics go. Is there more?”

“There is,” said Firien. She paused, taking a long draught of the wine before handing it back to him. “But you will not hear them tonight, unfortunately.”

“Some other time, then,” said Tahir. Then he looked at Firien seriously. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

“Don’t breathe a word of it to anyone,” Firien muttered, looking away.

“I won’t,” Tahir said, his voice sincere. “Can I ask what your father’s name was?”

“Taryth,” she whispered, almost fearfully.

“Where is he now?”

They passed the bottle a couple more times before Firien responded.

“Dead,” she said flatly. Tahir flinched and opened his mouth to speak, but she waved him off. “He went off to help with various rebellions and battles that broke out after the Great War ended, and just never returned. My mother got a courier saying he had died, along with a lock of his hair and his amulet of Mara. It sounds strange but the lock of hair is part of Bosmer tradition when someone dies in battle. It’s similar to an offering of proof, as well as something the loved one can keep, bury, or burn, as more often than not the body is too mangled and should be returned to the earth anyway. Otherwise, we would eat the corpse.”

“That is a strange custom,” Tahir said agreeingly, and Firien only shrugged in response. Though she was amazed that Tahir seemed unbothered to hear Bosmer ate the corpses of their fallen loved ones. Then again, Firien knew he was well educated, and probably already knew.

“He hated Nords,” she said with a hint of amusement. “I mean, I don’t know for sure because I was so young when he was alive, but from what I can piece together now, he was a supporter of the Thalmor. I don’t think he was actually directly involved with them, but I’m fairly sure he thought they had the right idea.”

“Do you?” Tahir asked.

“Gods no,” said Firien, the alcohol helping her speak more freely than normal. “I often wonder what he’d think of me now, living in Whiterun of all places. It was the only city in Skyrim he ever mentioned by name, so I decided it was where I would start out.”

After a moment, Tahir asked, “Do you have any siblings?”

“No,” Firien answered, a little too quickly. “I don’t have any siblings.”

Tahir gave her a look that told her he didn’t believe her, but he didn’t press the matter. 

“You should get some rest,” Tahir said. “I’ll take the first watch.”

He said it in a way that led her to believe not that he was angry, but rather he was respecting her choice to not disclose any more information. She had expected his question, and had carefully prepared how to word her answer to lie to him without actually lying to him.

Because she didn’t have any siblings.

Not anymore, anyway.


	4. Standing Stones- Jeremy Soule

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi I’m really excited to share more of Firien and Tahir’s relationship dynamics! I hope you guys enjoy this one!

“I’ve decided I hate this barrow.”

Firien glanced at Tahir and shook her head. In all honesty, she agreed. She hated it as well, but complaining about it wasn’t going to change anything. Ahead, they could see the corridor opened up to a large room, where the biggest spider Firien had ever laid eyes on resting in the exact center. Yet “big” was still an understatement. Its body alone was larger than the steer the Battle-born family kept in Whiterun, and that was excluding its legs. Speaking of, the third leg on its right side looked off, almost crooked in a sense. The same was for its second leg on the left side.

Firien hoped that meant it was injured.

“So what do we do?” she asked Tahir. The last thing she wanted to do was face that spider.

“Go home?” he suggested hopefully.

She shook her head again. As desperately as she wished they hadn’t been dragged into this, the pay was too good for them to turn around because of a spider. Although it was roughly the size of a small shack. 

“If we distract it, we might be able to—“ The sound of rustling interrupted her, and she tilted her head to listen to the sound.

“We might be able to...?” Tahir pressed.

“Shh!” Firien hissed. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“That rustling,” Firien replied. “It sounds like... I’m not sure.”

As she fell quiet, the rustling became accompanied by what sounded like grunting. Human grunting.

“It sounds like someone trying to free themselves?”

“What?” Tahir said, frowning.

“How can you not hear that?” Firien demanded. “It’s pretty damn loud.”

“I can’t hear it because I’m not an elf, you s’wit,” Tahir snapped. “I don’t have heightened hearing. Probably because my ears are normal-sized and not akin to those of a bat.”

Firien scoffed, ignoring his petty jabs. “That sounds like a personal problem to me. We need to focus, Tahir. Whoever is making that noise is probably someone who accidentally became the spider’s dinner. We should worry about the spider first, then worry about its dinner.”

“It’s probably a bandit,” Tahir muttered. “Anyway, what do we do about the spider?”

“I have no idea,” said Firien. “It looks like it could be injured, but it’s too risky to test that theory.”

She squinted, looking for some way they could defeat the obnoxiously overgrown arachnid without putting themselves at risk.

Then she saw it.

Directly beneath the spider, mostly hidden by thick, sticky webs, was something that appeared to be a metal grate, almost like a trap door.

“Do you see that?” Firien asked, pointing. “Under it?”

Tahir narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. “It looks like a grate of some sort.”

“It looks like it’s covering a pit,” analyzed Firien. “If we can find the trick to opening it, we could drop that spider and close the grate again so if it somehow lives, it won’t be able to get to us.”

“I’m so glad you don’t want to fight the damn thing,” said Tahir, sounding sincerely relieved.

Firien made a face. “It has eight legs and it’s bigger than me. Why would I want to confront it?”

With that, she began sneaking around, searching for a lever or pull chain or something that would open the grate and drop the spider. Of course, there was a good chance the webs would be strong enough to hold it, but it was something she would have to worry about later. 

So far, the spider was the worst thing they had encountered. A few dead draugr and some skeevers. A few corridors back had been a room with a strange puzzle to solve in order to open the gate, in which they had to rotate old stone pillars to display the right animals (either a snake, a whale, or a raven) in the correct order. Tahir had figured it out easily enough, and explained to Firien that the answer itself was in the room, and he pointed to the same pillars on a ledge above the gate; snake, snake, whale. After they had rotated the old stone pillars to display the two snakes and the whale, the gate slid upward with a rusty creak, revealing an ancient spiral staircase descending into the ground, which led them to where they are now— sneaking around a giant spider.

“There has to be something somewhere,” Firien murmured to herself as she quietly moved a large clay pot away from a corner. As she did so, hundreds of regular-sized spiders scurried from the corner, looking for safety. Firien winced and jerked her hand away. She didn’t have a problem with spiders, but she didn’t want them running up her arms in numbers.

Suddenly, there was a loud bang followed by a very shrill scream, and Firien whipped around to see the grates closing, the spider that was resting upon them no longer there. She saw Tahir on the opposite side, standing in such a place that she would not have seen him had the spider still been there. He had one hand resting upon a lever that matched the wall behind it so well, it was nearly invisible. He raised his other hand and waggled his fingers at her, a wide smile on his face. Firien rolled her eyes and crossed the room, stopping at the edge of the grate and peering down. Far below was the spider, its legs bent and broken and the rest of its body unmoving.

“Wow,” she said, looking up at Tahir. “You killed it.”

“It’s not like it was hard,” he said as he brushed his hands off on his pants.

“H-hello?! Is someone there?”

Firien and Tahir both snapped their heads in the direction of the voice, drawing their weapons. In a small doorway behind where the spider once was, a man was wrapped up in thick, sticky-looking web. Panic obscured his features but his eyes were covered, as the spider had partially encased his head. His dark, grayish-blue skin and pointed ear tip poking out from the web told them he was a Dunmer.

“Is that you, Harknir?” he cried, desperation coloring his voice. “Bjorn? Soling?! I know I ran ahead with the claw, but I need help!”

Firien and Tahir exchanged a wary glance. Firien made her way over to Tahir as silently as possible. In a whisper, she said, “Didn’t the bandits from last night mention a claw?”

Tahir nodded. “Aye, that they did. One of them said something about wanting his share... which means it’s worth something.”

Firien pondered this. “I’m not sure if I really care for the profits of it. It’s here for a reason. We need it for the barrow. I can feel it.”

“I know you’re there!” said the elf. “I can hear what you’re saying.”

“Fantastic,” said Tahir aloud, sheathing his scimitars. “So you know we need that claw, then.”

“I need it too!”

“You have no need for whatever lies at the end of this barrow,” said Firien coldly, sliding her axe into its holding sling on her back. “You’ll give us that claw, even if we have to pry it from your stiff, lifeless fingers.”

“It’s not like he can fight us off, really,” said Tahir, approaching the elf. “He’s... a little tied up, if you will.”

Firien suppressed a snort of amusement as she followed Tahir. It was true; the elf was bound tightly.

“Am I correct in assuming your name is Arvel?” Firien said.

“H-how did you know that? Did someone send you?”

“That doesn’t matter,” said Firien. “You have the claw, you know how it works, and you’re going to show us.”

“Why would I give it to you if you don’t even know what it’s for?” Arvel said, anger creeping into his voice.

Firien scoffed with a roll of her eyes and pressed the blade of Shriek to his throat. “Because I said so.”

Arvel’s breathing became harsh and labored as he blindly tried to crane his neck away from her blade, but was so tightly bound that he could not. “Okay! Fine! Yes, I know how it works. I’ll show you, okay? Just don’t kill me, please!”

“So you really know how it works?” Tahir asked, looking at Firien, impressed.

“Yes!” Arvel cried desperately. “I know how it works. The claw, the markings, the door in the Hall of Stories. I-I know how they all fit together! Help me down, and I'll show you! You won't believe the power the Nords have hidden there.”

“Should we?” Firien asked.

“Might as well,” replied Tahir. “There’s two of us and one of him. Plus, I don’t see how we’ll get it without having to touch... that.”

He gestured to the web, his expression disgusted. 

“We’re gonna have to touch it anyway,” said Firien, annoyed. “Here, give me one of your scimitars.”

“And get webs on them?” Tahir said, aghast. “I think not!”

“Gods above,” Firien muttered to herself, rolling her eyes at the ceiling. Before Tahir could protest, she gripped one of his scimitars by its hilt and wrenched it from the sheath. In two swift movements, she sliced through the web on either side of Arvel. Then, she cut through the web over his head and he fell to the floor like a sack of potatoes, his head hitting the ground with an audible thump.

“Oops,” said Firien insincerely, and she returned the scimitar to Tahir, who sheathed it with a grumble.

“You’re cleaning them later, you know,” he said, disgruntled.

Firien said nothing, but instead looked down at Arvel in disgust. She bent down and stuck her fingers between the web that encased his eyes and, with some effort, wrenched an opening in the web, allowing Arvel to see.

“The call you ‘Swift’ for a reason,” she stated.

Arvel returned her cold gaze with eyes that were entirely blood red, sclera and all. “They do. And what do they call you?”

“My name, usually,” said Firien, looking back at Tahir, who was grinning at her cool attitude. “What?”

“We should see if we can leave his arms bound behind him,” observed Tahir. “Perhaps his feet too. You said they call him that for a reason. But then we won’t be able to get him anywhere. I’m certainly not going to carry him.”

“And then what? Leave me here to die?” Arvel’s voice developed a hint of hysteria. “You can’t do that!”

“You’re a criminal,” said Firien, crouching so she could look at Arvel on a closer level. “We’re the people who get paid to hunt you down.”

“W-who sent you?”

“We were sent by someone very important,” replied Tahir. “But not for you. You’re nowhere near significant enough to be noticed by the likes of our patron. We’re after the object that claw leads to. So, you have two options; show us the way and make off with that claw and all the fortunes that come with it, or try and run away, and face your gods earlier than anticipated.”

“So... this thing you’re after,” said Arvel, his voice slowly gaining confidence. “If someone important sent you for it, and the only way to get to it is with this claw... it has to be pretty valuable, doesn’t it?”

Tahir frowned, looking puzzled, but before he could respond, Firien had stood, drawn her axe, and swung it in a large arch toward Arvel. She stopped it with the sharp blade barely an inch away from his throat. Arvel stared at her, eyes wide and chest heaving.

“Don’t even think about it,” she said. “We just offered you a pretty good deal. You’d be dense not to take it.”

“Okay! Okay,” said Arvel frantically. “I’ll help you find what you’re looking for! I won’t run!”

“You know the consequences if you do,” said Tahir with a wide, pleasant smile. He dropped next to Arvel and gripped his face, forcing him to look at Tahir. “I’m far nicer than my friend here, but don’t think I’d hesitate to strike you down the moment something seems off. We’ll free your feet but if you move even the slightest bit faster than us, I’ll cut them off and drag you the rest of the way. Maybe your little bandit friends can use the trail of blood to find your corpse.”

Firien had to admit the way Tahir maintained his comforting smile and kept his voice light and airy as if they were discussing dinner, rather than killing someone in cold blood, was unnerving.

“Your hands are staying bound,” Firien told Arvel as Tahir (reluctantly) began slicing through the webs that held his feet in place. “You’re too much of a risk otherwise.”

Now that most of the web was gone, save for the large spools that held his arms firmly to his sides, Firien could see that he carried a large pouch attached to a belt that was slung across his narrow waist. She silently made note of it, before looking at Tahir once more. “Ready?”

“I guess so,” he said meekly.

Firien led the way, passing through the doorway Arvel had been webbed up in, with the elf himself behind her and Tahir bringing up the rear, scimitars drawn and ready. Beyond, there were no webs, as the spider had been too large to squeeze through. A long, dimly lit corridor dotted with alcoves in the wall stretched on before her. In the alcoves were ancient urns, candelabras that held candles still burning by magic (she assumed, with a shudder), the occasional skull, and other things like ruined books, old parchment, and various embalming tools, all covered in a decently thick layer of dust and regular cobwebs.

Firien suppressed a shudder. It smelled of must, mold, and death down here.

It was around this time that she realized that she felt like something was calling to her, as if there was a thin wire pulling her along, showing her the way and guiding her through the barrow. There were many twists and turns away from the path they were on, but Firien always seemed to know the way. At one point, she thought she heard very far away chanting, but brushed it off when she heard Arvel stumble behind her, cursing to himself quietly.

She opted not to say anything about the strange force that seemed to be guiding her along.

They marched on in silence, the only sound coming from their booted feet as they walked. Ahead, Firien could see that the corridor ended and opened to some sort of chamber. From what she could see, even more alcoves were built into the walls there, but they were shorter, wider, and built deeper into the stone. Inside of them, oddly long and lumpy shapes rested, and she could just barely make out the glint of old swords and the odd shield. Firien felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up as she realized what they were.

“Are those... graves?” Tahir breathed from behind her.

Firien nodded, not trusting herself to speak. As they drew closer, she could tell that the shapes within were not regular skeletons, but instead the twisted, emaciated, blackened remains of draugr.

“Ye gods,” Arvel muttered as they stepped into the large room, which Firien could now see was more of a tomb. To their left, wide steps descended further into the tomb, and curved away toward the right. Where the path led, Firien could not tell, for the rounded wall of graves blocked it from sight.

“Let’s keep going,” she said, her voice low.

They continued on in silence, and Firien tried to keep her eyes ahead, but she could not help glancing at the draugr every so often. They seemed to be truly deceased, and though most wore filthy rags (others wore armor), she could still see the way their mummified skin stretched over their faces, shoulders, and hip bones, and she felt a bit nauseous. This was wrong by the standards of her people. Corpses were meant to be consumed—and whatever remained made into something useful.

Down here, the pull seemed to be stronger, more magnetic.

Suddenly, there was a loud groan, and Arvel shrieked in terror as the armored draugr to his right suddenly opened its eerie, glowing blue eyes and looked directly at him. Tahir, ever quick to react, leapt forward and jammed a scimitar through the draugr’s eye, silencing it. However, more of the draugr around them (but nowhere near all of them) began to stir, and before Firien could stop him, Arvel took off, skirting around her and thundering down the steps. About five seconds later, she heard what sounded like something large and metal hitting stone, and she shook her head in disbelief.

“Fucking idiot,” Firien muttered as she ducked a blow from a staggering draugr with a sword. Though they were large and intimidating, the draugr were rather slow and clumsy, which made fighting them off simple. She quickly beheaded it and looked for Tahir, who had just slain two more. As she suspected, the draugr were surprisingly easy to bring down, and within minutes, they were surrounded by about six truly dead draugr.

She supposed it would still be fine as long as they found Arvel’s corpse later. He was unarmed and his hands were bound, and if there were more draugr down the path, he would be defenseless.

“Now what?” Tahir asked, panting slightly, and Firien relayed her thoughts out loud to him, and he only shrugged. “They called him Arvel the Swift, not Arvel the Wise. He just demonstrated that much. If he were wise, he would have stayed with us. You know, the only people nearby who are armed and capable.”

Firien snorted. “Let’s go. Maybe if the fool is still alive, we should just kill him.”

Tahir gave her a wry smile as they descended the steps, albeit at a much slower pace than Arvel. “Now, where’s the honor and glory in that, Shield-sister?”

Firien ignored him, and together they rounded the bend and stopped short at the sight before them. 

“Well that’s...” began Tahir, but he seemed to not have the words to describe what he was seeing.

“Unfortunate?” Firien supplied for him.

“We can go with that.”

Ahead, Arvel had met his gruesome end. No draugr were to be seen, but he was suspended in the air by a large gate. Large metal spikes jutted from the gate, and about four of them had impaled Arvel, including one right through his face, rendering him unrecognizable. Blood and what Firien could only imagine was bits of intestine and brain matter splattered the wall beside the gate, implying it had swung “shut” so violently that it hit the same wall it was mounted to, catching Arvel between. On the ground, large droplets of blood made a trail from the wall to beneath Arvel’s feet, where a decent sized puddle had formed from the blood that spilled from his grim and fatal wounds.

Tahir took a step forward. “How d’you think—?”

“TAHIR!” Firien cried, causing him to stop short and look at her in alarm. She pointed to the ground before him, so he looked at where she was pointing and jumped back, startled. Right where Tahir had almost stepped was a pressure plate, which undoubtedly caused the gate to swing shut, thus killing Arvel.

“Good eyes,” Tahir said, sounding shaken.

“I’m surprised that was the first trap we encountered,” said Firien, trying to not sound relieved that Tahir had managed to avoid the same fate as Arvel the Swift.

“They probably didn’t expect anyone to get past the draugr or the spider,” said Tahir conversationally as they moved on, careful to give a wide berth to the pressure plate. He trotted over to Arvel. “I wonder why he ran. We were even going to let him keep the claw... or so he thought.”

“The pouch on his belt,” said Firien, taking care to stand away from the gate. “Hopefully it didn’t get damaged. And to answer your ponderings, probably because he was a frightened coward who got way in over his head.”

“So you’re saying it’s better to be idiotic Companions who got way in over their heads?” With a laugh, Tahir rummaged through the blood-soaked pouch, finally pulling out a large, golden claw that, to Firien, resembled a dragon claw. Or at least, it looked like the claws of the one that had attacked Helgen.

“Is there anything else?” she asked. The pouch didn’t look empty. Tahir quickly stuffed the claw in his pack and stuck his hand back in the pouch. He withdrew a quill, a pot of ink, an old hunk of bread, some moldy cheese, a sprouting potato, and finally, a small, leather bound book.

Tahir returned to Firien and began eagerly flipping through the book, and announced, to his delight, that it was a journal.

“There’s even a diagram of the claw,” he said excitedly as he scanned the pages. “And it tells us how it works! But...” He frowned, his brow furrowing. “Remember how that dolt said, ‘You won’t believe the power the Nords have hidden here?’ Well, the journal mentions ‘the secret of Bleak Falls Barrow’ quite a few times, but doesn’t mention what it is.... Do you have any idea?”

Firien shook her head, and decided to tell Tahir what she had been feeling. “I have no idea but... ever since we got past the spider, I’ve felt like something is pulling me into the barrow... like there’s something here that’s meant for me to find. At one point, I even thought I heard chanting but didn’t dwell on it. Do you feel this too?”

Tahir only shook his head. “I think you should trust this feeling. I don’t know, Firien... I think it’s just odd that you happened to be there when the dragon showed up, and then you had that strange trance thing by those old standing stones out in the plains of Whiterun, and now this.”

“You were there for all those things too,” she pointed out, somewhat defensively.

“The dragon showed up when YOU were on the chopping block, not me,” he said. “You were the one in a trance, and you’re the one feeling like you’re being called to something in this barrow. We’re after the Dragonstone tablet, which is related to whatever is going on with the dragons. Or so the Jarl thinks. Maybe it has to do with that, I don’t know.”

He fell quiet for a moment, and then—

“I think you have a lot more to do with this than anyone realizes.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Firien demanded.

Tahir shrugged. “It means what it means. I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

With one last glance at Arvel, Firien left the gate with Tahir beside her. They crept along the tomb, alert for more draugr, but Firien was pleased to discover that no more of the corpses lining the walls suddenly stood with a growl, weapons in hand. 

“Do you hear that?” she and Tahir suddenly whispered in unison. They looked at each other in surprise.

From up ahead, a noise echoed through the caverns and tunnels. It sounded familiar, but Firien could not place it.

“What does it sound like to you?” Firien asked Tahir, turning to him.

With a cocky smirk, Tahir said, “A noise I would recognize anywhere. I’m surprised you don’t.”

Before Firien could ask what he meant, he suddenly began swinging his scimitars together, back and forth. Firien stared at him, bewildered, before realization set in.

“Swinging blades,” she groaned as Tahir ceased his movements. “Whatever is at the end of this barrow better be worth it.”

Together, they hurried forward, and sure enough, through a doorway and around a bend they found the swinging blades. Axes, to be specific. A small tunnel was before them, and the axes swung from the low ceiling, their blades dropping enough to nearly scrape the floor, which barred any possibility of crawling beneath them. Firien could see even more tunnel beyond them, albeit wider and axe-free. On that side, she could see a pull chain that she knew would stop the axes.

“One of us is gonna have to go,” said Tahir casually.

“Why do I get the feeling you mean me?”

“You’re quicker and smaller,” said Tahir, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “A trap like this is meant to deter men, not Elves.”

“Shouldn’t you be leaping upon any opportunity to show off?” Firien snapped.

“You’d think, right?” Tahir gave her a wide, cheeky grin.

Firien stared at the swinging axes, her heart racing. From what she could see, there were four sets of two swinging axes, the blades falling toward each other in opposing arcs. It looked as if there was about a foot and a half of space between each set, and Firien thought if maybe she stopped between each set and remained perfectly still, she just might be able to make it through to the pull chain to stop the axes so Tahir could pass through safely.

“Or maybe I’ll wait til you’re halfway through and turn them back on,” she snarled to herself.

“Easy, now,” said Tahir with a sly smirk.

“If I die, don’t allow yourself to believe you’re safe from me,” Firien warned cryptically. Not giving Tahir the chance to say anything, she shoved Shriek and her pack into his arms and began unclasping her cloak. She tossed it at his head with disdain before approaching the entrance to the tunnel. Up close, she could feel the wind the blades caused, causing her hair at her at her temples and beside her cheeks to flutter listlessly. Inhaling sharply, she watched the blades closely, tracking their movements. She watched them for quite some time, stabilizing herself and preparing herself for the fact that this could easily go very, very wrong.

Without waiting any longer, Firien rushed forward, feeling the blades swing past her back. She felt the tiniest tug on her hair and, not daring to look behind her, she quickly stepped through the next set of blades, almost overstepping. She struggled to maintain her balance without moving at all. She felt panic rising in her throat but she forced herself to remain calm, taking a moment to recenter herself and breathe. The sound of the swinging blades was loud in her ears, and she felt the wind they stirred up all around her.

“Just two more,” she whispered to herself, and she hurried forward once more, but she was a touch too eager, and she stifled a cry as she felt the edge of one of the blades slice through her boots, cutting her shin. It took all her self control to not go down, and she looked up in a silent prayer before forcing herself forward again, her eyes screwed shut.

Behind her, she could hear Tahir whooping in celebration and she realized she had made it through. She limped forward and yanked on the pull chain, causing the axes to screech to a stop. She looked back at them, surprised to see them completely still about three quarters of the way back into their nearly invisible slots in the walls. To her disgust, the blades were covered in blood and rust, and as if on cue, her shin throbbed, forcing her to look down at her leg.

“Do you have any healing salve or potions?” she asked Tahir, gesturing to her bloody boot. “I normally wouldn’t bother but... those axes look like they’re covered in all sorts of nasty infections and I don’t know about you, but I think I work better with my leg still attached to me.”

“I do, I think,” said Tahir. He handed her belongings back to her and pulled his pack off, gesturing to a small boulder covered in old vines just below the pull chain. “Sit.”

Firien did as she was told and removed her boot and then rolled down her sock, which was also bloodstained. Now that she was able to see the wound, she could see that while it was long and slightly wide, it was fairly shallow. Suddenly, Tahir was there, dabbing at it with a clean but damp cloth.

“Where’d you get water?” Firien asked, surprised.

Tahir gave her an odd look. “Waterskin...?”

“Ah,” said Firien as she watched him clean the wound. “Unfortunately, I’ll have to get that boot repaired now. I could just replace them but I’m rather fond of these ones. They’re well worn and comfortable.”

Tahir put the bloodied cloth down and retrieved a small wooden jar. He opened it and a strong mint scent wafted from the pale blue substance within. “Are you normally a talker when you’re injured?”

Firien seethed as he slathered some of the ointment on with his fingers, causing her cut to burn. “Are you sure this is supposed to help? It burns!”

“Answer my question and I’ll answer yours,” said Tahir smoothly.

“Yes, asshole,” Firien snapped. “It helps take my mind off the pain, okay? I’m not numb. I even talk to myself when I’m treating my own wounds. Happy?”

“Very,” said Tahir, indeed sounding satisfied. “And yes, this is supposed to help. It burns because it’s disinfecting your wound. Aren’t you supposed to be the expert on this sort of thing?”

“Plants and fungi,” said Firien between gritted teeth as Tahir reached for a strip of bandage to wrap her leg with. “I know those. Once it gets to a potions master or alchemist, it’s beyond me. I know which plants will heal which ailment, and which fungi you can press into a wound and clean it with. But once they’re jumbled together, I don’t know.”

“You’re a baby,” said Tahir simply as he tied a knot from the two ends of the bandages. He held his hands up, as if he were displaying something. “All done, and I’m mostly sure you won’t die.”

“Sounds reassuring,” said Firien, standing and gingerly putting weight on her leg. Finding that pressure only produced a (fairly noticeable) twinge of pain, she allowed herself to stand as normally as possible. She swung her cloak around her shoulders and fastened it at her throat. “A job well done, Healer Tahir.”

“You’re quite welcome, ailed one.”

“Let’s just keep moving,” said Firien, pulling up her sock before tugging her boot back on. She sadly picked at the torn leather before looking at Tahir. “The sooner we’re out of this place, the better.”

Leaving the booby-trapped passage behind them, they pressed on, passing through tunnel after cavern after tunnel. Every so often, a draugr hidden in an alcove or around a bend would appear, but aside from those, Firien and Tahir were able to keep going with ease, every twist, every turn, and every stairway leading them deeper and deeper into the barrow.

Finally, they came upon a wide passage way, and at the end of it, a huge, ringed door.

“So the claw opens this door?” Tahir asked, holding the claw up to the door, as if comparing them. “Probably shouldn’t just stick it in, eh? It’s likely trapped.”

Firien absently tapped one of the small, dusty tubes jutting from the wall from where she stood to the side of the passage and echoed, “Likely...”

“According to Arvel’s notes—“

“Which are definitely stolen,” Firien interrupted in a mutter. She was tired and grumpy and her feet were starting to hurt. So far, they had only stopped to rest once since discovering Arvel’s body and it felt like ages ago. The strange tug that she had been feeling was stronger than ever, and now pulsed in time with a pounding in her head. She had no idea how long they had been down here, and she had no idea how deep underground they were and she hated it. She longed for fresh air and trees and open sky.

She could tell, though, that whatever was calling to her was just beyond this ugly, ringed door. It was set at the end of a broad, yet slightly squat passage. The walls themselves, though covered in vines, moss, dust, and rot, displayed carvings of dragons, warriors, draugr, and stranged masked men with flowing robes.

“According to Arvel’s notes,” Tahir repeated loudly, “we just need to match the animals on the stone rings to the animals on the palm of the claw, in the same order. Which in this case...” He examined the claw before looking at the rings, which displayed an owl on the top ring, then a bear on the middle ring, and another bear on the ring closest to the keyhole, which is where they would insert the claw. “It would be bear on top, then a moth, and then the owl.”

“Then by all means,” said Firien, exhausted, “turn the rings to the correct display so we can get out of here.” As an afterthought she said in a defeated tone, “Please, Tahir.”

“Are you okay?” Tahir asked, sounding concerned. He turned the outermost ring twice, bypassing a moth and an owl, before it settled on the bear. The loud grating noise created by the stone ring made Firien wince.

“Just a headache,” she said. “Whatever is calling to me is on the other side.”

“I’m curious to see what it is,” Tahir replied as, with some effort, he turned the second ring to show the moth.

“Me too,” said Firien begrudgingly as Tahir turned the final and smallest ring. Once the owl was proudly on display, Tahir looked at the claw, then at Firien.

“Do you want to do the honors?” he asked, holding it out to her.

“I guess,” said Firien, accepting the claw. “If anything happens, we should probably just drop to the ground until it stops.”

Without waiting for him to respond, the matched the claw to the keyhole before pressing it into the holes. When nothing happened, she frowned deeply. Her head was throbbing, and she felt like she might pass out.

“Try turning it,” said Tahir. “Keys turn, don’t they?”

Firien almost smacked herself for not thinking of that. With baited breath, she turned the claw to the right. There was a loud click and the rings began spinning quickly. Firien yanked the claw away from the keyhole not even a full second before Tahir knocked her to the ground as a deafening rumble filled the air. The passageway trembled violently before, suddenly, the door dropped into the ground and a strong blast of wind ravaged them, then it all came to a sudden halt, leaving the passageway eerily still and silent.

No... not silent. Firien could hear two noises. The unmistakable sound of running water, and a deep, thunderous chanting that matched with the pounding in her head, now clear and unmuffled thanks to the absence of stone between her and the source of the sound.

Tahir helped her to her feet but Firien could barely stand, for the pressure and pain built up in her skull was nearly unbearable.

“For the love of all gods, Tahir, what is that?” she cried, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. Stars burst behind her lids and she felt herself sway.

“What is what?” Tahir demanded, worry now coloring his voice as he wrestled Firien’s hands away from her face. “I don’t hear—“ He successfully pinned her arms to her sides. “—anything!”

“The chanting,” she gasped, forcing her eyes open and looking at Tahir. “It’s so loud! Where is it coming from?”

“There’s no chanting, Firien,” said Tahir, looking at her as if she’d lost her mind. “The only thing I hear is the stream...”

But Firien wasn’t paying him any mind. Over his shoulder, she saw the door had opened up to a large chamber, which undoubtedly rested at the heart of the mountain. It was more of a cavern, really, and in the cavern there was a large plateau in the center. Natural light from the outside world streamed in from some far-away hole at the peak, which was so far above them that it was absorbed into darkness, save for the lone beam of light. The beam was illuminating a stone podium of some sort which stood at the center of the plateau. Before the podium was an ancient stone casket, like the type they had seen some draugr arise from in the barrow, and behind the podium was a large, curved wall.

Firien pushed Tahir aside and began stumbling toward the Wall, which was undeniably the source of the chanting. Even from here, she could see that there were carvings, deep gouges etched into the Wall, and one of them was glowing blue.

“Firien?” Tahir asked, his voice sounding far-away and small compared to the chanting. “We should probably—“

But Firien had already crossed a small bridge over the stream and was meandering up the steps to the plateau, completely entranced by this Wall, whatever it was. The Word—for it was a Word—that was glowing blue held her attention, and the closer she got to it, the darker the world around her became, until all she could see was the glowing blue characters. The chanting was vibrating her very bones, and she vaguely wondered if this was the “secret” of the barrow.

Firien came to a stop less than a foot away from the Wall, and without any hesitation, she stretched out her arm to touch the gouges. The moment her fingers touched the old stone, which burned her skin like ice, several things happened at once; there was a distant crash, an unearthly scream of rage, and Tahir shouted her name in alarm; and she felt her throat ache as she screamed in pain, the Word searing itself, white hot, into her eyes and her brain, until she could only see and know one thing: FUS.

—

The next thing she knew, it was silent once more and she was being shaken awake. She groaned and covered her eyes with her arm, not wanting to open them.

“By the Eight, you scared the hell out of me,” said Tahir, helping her into a sitting position.

Firien dropped her arm but kept her eyes screwed tightly shut. She could still see echoes of the strange Word behind her lids. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure,” said Tahir, sounding as uncertain as he claimed. “You touched the Wall, passed out, then a really, _really_ strong draugr burst out of the casket, and I killed it... if that’s the right term.”

Firien opened her eyes and looked at him, relieved to see the dazzling white light of the Word hadn’t blinded her. His hair was a mess and there were a couple bruises on his face.

“What did it do to you?” she asked him. 

“I’m not sure,” he repeated. “It... said something to me—“

“It _said_ something to you?” Firien interrupted incredulously.

“Yes and no,” replied Tahir with a frown. “I think shouted might be more accurate. But that’s not important. Whatever it did, it blasted me off my feet with some sort of... blue energy and I hit the rocks over there pretty hard. I was dazed and in pain but it was going for you and... I had to stop it. I’m not sure where that strength came from but you were defenseless.”

“Oh,” said Firien, embarrassed. She looked down at her dirty boots.

“I won’t get used to it,” said Tahir with a grin, sensing her embarrassment. “I know it was a one time thing.”

He held something up for her to see, something about the size of a book. Firien took the object, surprised at how heavy it was.

“I did kinda grab this before rushing to your aid,” admitted Tahir. “I figured you were probably being dramatic and trying to get out of yet another fight with a draugr, and I prioritized the Dragonstone tablet.”

“Thanks, ass,” she mumbled drily, turning the tablet over in her hands. There were marking similar to the ones on the Wall, but none of them burned blue or temporarily blinded her, let alone made her fall unconscious. Firien mostly couldn’t understand any of them, but every so often a fragment of a word would jump out at her, translating in her brain to the common tongue.

“What’s happening to me, Tahir?” she asked, handing him the tablet and putting her hands in her hair. She stared down at the worn floor of the plateau between her knees. “Why is none of this happening to you?”

“Don’t know,” said Tahir idly, and she could tell he was examining the tablet. “Maybe It has something to do with the dragons.”

“No, it doesn’t,” said Firien firmly, looking up at him. “It has nothing to do with the damned dragons. Dragon. We’ve only seen one.”

Tahir stood and offered her a hand. Firien took it and allowed him to pull her to her feet. She stumbled a bit, but caught herself by throwing a hand out against the Wall. This time, nothing burned her like ice.

“We should probably get the hell out of here,” said Tahir, not commenting on her denial of dragons. “See if we can get some answers for this stupid hunk of rock.”

“Do we have to go all the way back through?” Firien asked with a small groan.

“I don’t think so,” said Tahir. “I saw a passageway to the left of the Wall. The plants there were greener, which means—“

“Fresh air,” Firien finished for him, sounding relieved. “Perfect. Let’s go.”

“Wait, there’s a chest,” said Tahir. “I wanted to wait until you awoke before I checked it out.”

“Okay,” said Firien with a shrug, and she followed Tahir over to a large, intricately carved wooden chest. It was held shut only by two silver clasps, which Tahir undid with ease. They knelt before the chest, and when Tahir lifted the lid, Firien’s jaw dropped when she saw its contents.

Piles of gold and gems, ancient Elven armor, weapons, and rich-looking clothing were what awaited them within. 

Tahir whistled, impressed. “What do we do with all this?”

“Take what we can, give nothing back,” said Firien simply. Tahir mirrored her earlier shrug and removed his pack. He began tossing in fistfuls of gold and gems, and even a couple of glass and Elven daggers. 

“To trade,” he explained when Firien looked at him quizzically.

Firien joined Tahir’s antics and soon, the chest was empty, save for a large white geometric-looking ball.

“What do you suppose that is?” Tahir asked, looking at it curiously.

“Nothing important,” Firien answered confidently, and snapped the chest shut once more.

Tahir scoffed. “Who said I was done browsing?”

“Me,” said Firien, forcing herself to her feet. “Unless you want that ball. Can’t imagine it has any value, though.”

“Good point,” said Tahir, also standing. “Let’s get out of here.”

They left the chest and darted up the sloping pathway, which took them into a narrow cave. One swift downward descent and up another small hill revealed a stone door. Firien glanced at Tahir apprehensively. “Think this is it?”

“It better be,” said Tahir. “I want to be out of this barrow as badly as you do, little elf.”

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, and neither of them made any move to open the door.

“I opened the last one,” said Tahir. “This one is all you.”

Not at all knowing what to expect, Firien squared her shoulders and pushed the stone door. It didn’t budge, and Tahir, with a sigh of exasperation, pressed his weight against it as well. For a moment, nothing happened, and Firien dug her feet into the ground and pushed harder, straining against the door. Beside her, Tahir did the same thing. He grunted with effort and, finally, the door began to move, sliding against the floor with the distinctive sound of heavy stone dragging against even more stone.

Outside, it was either late night or early morning. Firien could not tell, but she inhaled sharply at how surreal and unusual the world looked. They were standing on a stone ledge that overlooked a large, still lake. Below, a steep descent lead from where they stood to the distant shores of the lake. Above, a craggy wall reached to the sky, blocking the peak of the mountain and making it impossible to tell how far up its side they were. The sky was mostly blanketed by black thunderheads, but patches of sky could be seen here and there, and through them, bright green auroras shone through, turning the world into an eerie blue-green around them and illuminating every tree, rock, and plant between their ledge and the lake, which was reflecting the auroras on its unmoving waters.

“Whoa,” said Tahir breathlessly.

Firien could only nod silently. Since arriving in Skyrim, she had yet to see the auroras, and now that she had, she could only stare at them in wonder, sparsely viewable as they were.

“Should we just... camp here?” Tahir asked. “We’re fairly high up, which means out of reach of predators... unless a dragon comes along.”

“We could go back in the barrow but...” Firien inhaled deeply through her nostrils, closing her eyes. It smelled of damp soil and petrichor. “To do such a thing would just be cruel to ourselves.”

“Agreed,” said Tahir, sliding his pack off for the second time in a short period. “We can leave by mid morning. If I’m assuming correctly, that’s Lake Ilinalta, which means we’re actually not too far off from—“

“Helgen?” Firien supplied.

“I was going to say Riverwood but that works too.”

“How are we so close still?” said Firien as she laid out her bedroll. “It felt like we were down there for ages. It felt like we walked for miles.”

“I’m not sure,” said Tahir, digging through his pack for food, "but I am curious to see how much time has passed. We barely slept while we were down there, and I feel exhausted as if we had been awake for days. I’d say, realistically, probably a day and a half or two days since we woke up in that first chamber.”

He handed Firien half a loaf of stale bread (keeping the other half for himself) and she accepted it gratefully. They lit no fire, but the auroras above provided them with just enough light to see what they were doing. Firien chewed on her bread silently, pondering what had happened to her not an hour ago.

“What do you think it means?” she asked vaguely.

Tahir, not missing a beat, said through a mouth full of bread, “It means there’s something unusual about you. I didn’t experience anything you experienced. And when you fainted...”

Firien thought back to that moment. To the Word that burned so brightly at the forefront of her mind.

“Fus...” she mumbled, and the grass around her torn and dirty boots shuddered, but there was no wind in that moment.

“What?” Tahir asked, squinting at her.

“Nothing,” Firien replied. Her bread was now gone, and she dusted her hands on her pants. “We should get to sleep. We still have a long way back to Whiterun.”

“Should we keep watch?” Tahir asked, looking around warily.

“No,” Firien said wearily. “There’s no need. Sleep. We’ll leave before noon.”

“Sounds good,” said Tahir, suddenly sounding as exhausted as she felt. “Oh, and Firien?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m keeping the claw. A souvenir, if you will.”

Firien shook her head in disbelief. Without another word, she tucked herself into her bedroll, listening to Tahir follow suit, and though her mind was buzzing with what seemed like a thousand questions, she was asleep in moments.


End file.
